UCSB   LIBRARY 


MEMOIRS    OF    AN    ARTIST. 


CHARLES    FRANCOIS    GOUNOD. 


MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ARTIST 


BY 

CHARLES   FRANQOIS    GOUNOD 


RENDERED     INTO     ENGLISH 

BY 
ANNETTE    E.  CROCKER 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK: 
RAND,  McNALLY    A  COMPANY. 

MDCCCXCV. 


Copyright,  1893,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 


TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE. 


Gounod,  in  these  memoirs,  terms 
words  "docile  and  faithful  servants  of 
thought,"  and  states  their  duty  to  be  to 
"lead  one  to  the  summit  without  rude 
shock  — mysterious  guides,  who  conceal 
both  themselves  and  their  methods." 

Words  served  him  thus.  He  was 
their  master,  as  he  was  master  of  all 
things  he  took  in  hand  to  perform, 
his  dominating  genius  attuning  thought 
to  phrase  as  sweetly  as  it  wove  melody 
and  harmony  into  musical  expression. 

I  approached  with  trepidation  the 
task  of  clothing  in  new  livery  his  deft 
servitors,  fearing  that,  perchance,  ill- 
fashioned  apparel  might  render  their 
presence  obvious, their  guidance  clumsy; 
nevertheless,  I  undertook  the  work,  actu- 
ated by  a  resolute  purpose  to  maintain 
faithfully  the  tone  of  the  original. 

That  I  have  fallen  somewhat  short  in 
my  aim,  I  am  only  too  conscious,  but 
(i) 


that  the  substance  and  color  of  the 
master's  thought  are  at  least  faintly 
reflected,  I  fain  would  hope. 

The  abrupt  termination  of  his  me- 
moirs, which  break  off  at  a  time  before 
the  tardy  public  fully  recognized  his 
genius,  is  a  matter  of  deep  regret,  for 
his  illuminating  comments  on  contem- 
porary compositions  and  men  doubtless 
would  have  been  of  inestimable  value 
and  interest. 

It  is  believed  that  he  brought  his 
memoirs  down  much  nearer  to  the  pres- 
ent time,  but  afterward  destroyed  the 
latter  part.  Many  theories  are  advanced 
to  account  for  this  regrettable  destruc- 
tion, the  most  plausible  of  which  is 
based  on  the  knowledge  that  shortly 
after  the  production  of  Faust  there  oc- 
curred phases  in  his  life  which  probably 
he  later  desired  to  forget;  so  it  may 
be  reasonably  assumed  that,  dreading  to 
embitter  with  distressing  memories  the 
mellow  joys  of  subsequent  years  of 
prosperous  recognition,  he  blotted  out 
that  part  of  his  autobiography  which 
would  have  recalled  painful  episodes. 


Whatever  may  have  been  the  cause, 
the  loss,  though  great,  is,  fortunately, 
not  altogether  irreparable;  for  Gounod 
was  a  voluminous  correspondent,  and 
his  letters,  which  it  is  understood  will 
soon  be  published,  will  in  some  measure 
compensate  for  the  loss  of  his  later 
memoirs. 

ANNETTE  E.  CROCKER. 

CHICAGO,  December,  1895. 


PREFACE. 


The  following-  pages  tell  of  the  events 
that  have  most  affected  my  life  as  an 
artist,  of  the  impressions  that  I  have 
received,  of  the  influence  they  have 
exercised  upon  my  career,  and  the  re- 
flections they  have  suggested  to  me. 

Without  deceiving  myself  as  to  the 
degree  of  interest  that  may  attach  to 
my  personality,  I  believe  that  the  pre- 
cise and  simple  relation  of  the  life  of 
an  artist  may  afford  to  others  useful 
instruction,  which,  lying  concealed, 
perhaps,  in  some  fact  or  word  of  no 
apparent  importance,  adapts  itself  to 
individuals  according  to  the  disposition 
of  the  mind  or  the  needs  of  the  moment. 
The  most  unimportant  action,  the  most 
unpremeditated  word,  often  exerts  a 
beneficial  influence;  this  has  been  my 
experience,  and  what  has  been  useful 
or  salutary  to  me  may  be  so  to  others. 

(5) 


An  author,  in  writing  memoirs,  has 
frequent,  almost  momentary,  occasion 
to  speak  of  himself.  In  doing  this  I 
have  tried  to  be  impartial  in  the 
expression  of  my  opinions;  I  have  en- 
deavored to  be  exact  and  truthful  in 
the  narration  of  events,  especially  when 
repeating  the  words  of  others  concern- 
ing me.  I  have  stated  with  sincerity 
what  I  think  of  my  own  works;  but  the 
owl  deceives  herself  in  her  judgment  of 
her  little  ones,  and  I  am  no  better  pro- 
tected than  she  from  the  danger  of 
delusion.  Time,  if  it  should  occupy 
itself  with  me,  will  decide  the  measure 
of  my  worth;  upon  it  I  depend  to  put 
me  where  I  belong,  as  it  does  with  all 
things  else,  or  to  set  me  right  if  I  be 
out  of  place. 

This  account  of  my  life  is«a  testimony 
of  veneration  and  affection  for  the 
being  who  has  given  me  the  greatest 
love  in  the  world  —  mother-love.  The 
mother  is,,  here  below,  the  most  perfect 
image,  the  purest  and  warmest  ray  of 
Providence;  her  never-failing  care  and 
watchfulness  are  the  direct  emanation 


of  the  eternal  care  and  watchfulness  of 
God. 

If  I  have  succeeded  in  being,  saying, 
or  doing  anything  good,  however  small, 
in  my  life,  it  is  to  my  mother  that  I  owe 
it;  and  it  is  to  her  that  I  wish  to  give 
the  credit.  It  was  she  who  nursed  me, 
who  brought  me  up,  who  formed  me  — 
not,  alas,  in  her  own  image;  that  would 
have  been  too  beautiful  —  and  in  what- 
ever respect  I  may  have  lacked,  the 
shortcoming  was  not  hers,  but  mine. 

She  rests  under  a  stone  as  pure  and 
simple  as  was  her  life. 

May  this  tribute  of  a  well-beloved 
son  leave  upon  her  tomb  a  wreath  more 
durable  than  our  "immortelles  of  a 
day,"  and  assure  for  her  memory,  after 
my  death,  a  respect  that  I  could  wish 
to  make  eternal! 


MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


i. 

CHILDHOOD. 

MY  mother  was  born  at  Rouen,  June 
4,  1 780,  her  maiden  name  being  Vic- 
toire  Lemachois.  Her  father  was  a 
magistrate  of  that  city.  Her  mother, 
a  Mademoiselle  Heuzey,  was  endowed 
with  remarkable  intelligence  and  a 
wonderful  gift  for  the  arts.  She  was 
a  poet  and  musician ;  she  composed, 
sang,  and  played  the  harp ;  and  I 
have  often  heard  my  mother  say  that 
she  acted  tragedy  like  Mademoiselle 
Duchesnois,  and  comedy  like  Made- 
moiselle Mars. 

Such  a  rare  combination  of  excep- 
tional natural  gifts  made  her  sought 
for  by  the  most  distinguished  persons 
in  high  society,  such  as  the  families 

(9) 


10 

of  d'Hcmdetot,  de  Mortemart,  Saint- 
Lambert,  d'Herbotiville,  and  others, 
among  whom  she  was  literally  a 
spoiled  child. 

But,  alas!  the  accomplishments 
which  are  the  charm  and  fascination 
of  life  do  not  always  insure  happiness. 
Domestic  peace  is  with  difficulty  pre- 
served in  the  case  of  a  total  disparity 
of  tastes,  inclinations,  and  instincts, 
and  it  is  a  dangerous  dream  to  wish 
to  subject  the  realities  of  life  to  the 
reign  of  the  ideal.  Thus,  harmony 
was  not  slow  in  deserting  a  household 
where  so  many  differences  conspired 
to  banish  it.  My  mother's  childhood 
suffered  the  unhappy  consequence, 
and  her  life  became  serious  at  the  age 
when  she  should  have  known  no  care. 

But  God  had  blessed  her,  however, 
with  a  strong  mind,  good  sense,  and 
courage  equal  to  anything.  Deprived 
at  an  early  age  of  a  mother's  care,  she 
was  obliged  to  learn  alone  to  read  and 
write,  and  acquired  by  herself,  also, 
the  first  ideas  of  drawing-  and  music, 


11 


of  the  latter  of  which  she  was  soon  to 
make  use  as  a  source  of  livelihood. 

The  Revolution  occasioned  my 
grandfather  the  loss  of  his  position 
in  the  court  of  Rouen.  My  mother 
then  thought  only  of  striving  to  be 
useful.  She  sought  for  piano  pupils, 
which  having  found,  she  commenced, 
at  the  age  of  eleven  years,  that  labo- 
rious profession  to  which,  when  later 
a  widow,  she  was  to  have  recourse  as 
a  means  of  raising  her  children. 

Stimulated  by  a  desire  to  always  do 
better,  and  by  a  sense  of  duty  that 
directed  and  dominated  her  whole 
life,  she  felt,  as  a  teacher,  the  neces- 
sity of  learning  from  the  best  author- 
ity the  most  correct  method  of  in- 
struction. She  resolved,  therefore, 
to  have  lessons  from  some  celebrated 
master,  by  which  means  her  reputa- 
tion would  be  strengthened  and  her 
conscience  reassured.  In  order  to 
attain  this  object,  she  put  aside,  little 
by  little  —  sou  by  sou,  perhaps  —  a  part 
of  the  poor  little  sum  realized  from 


12 

her  modest  patronage,  and,  when  she 
had  saved  the  necessary  amount,  she 
took  the  coach,  which  was  then  three 
days  in  going  from  Rouen  to  Paris, 
and  went  straight  to  Adam,  professor 
of  piano  at  the  Conservatory,  also 
father  of  Adolphe  Adam,  author  of 
Le  Chalet,  and  of  many  other  charm- 
ing works.  Adam  received  her 
kindly  and  listened  to  her  with  atten- 
tion, recognizing  in  her  the  qualities 
that  maintain  and  solidify  the  in- 
terest first  felt  in  promising  talent. 
Not  being  able,  on  account  of  her 
youth,  to  install  herself  in  Paris  for 
the  purpose  of  taking  lessons  in  a 
regular  and  consecutive  manner,  it 
was  arranged  that  she  should  make 
the  journey  from  Rouen  to  Paris  once 
every  three  months  to  have  a  lesson. 
One  lesson  every  three  months! 
That  would  hardly  seem  enough,  it 
must  be  admitted,  to  be  profitable. 
But  there  are  beings  who  are  a  living 
demonstration  of  the  miracle  of  the 
increase  of  bread  in  the  wilderness, 


13 

and  it  will  be  seen  by  many  other  in- 
stances in  the  course  of  this  narrative, 
that  my  mother  was  one  of  those 
beings. 

This  woman,  who  was  to  win  for 
herself  in  after  years  so  good  and 
genuine  a  reputation  in  teaching,  was 
not,  could  not  be,  a  pupil  to  lose  any- 
thing of  the  rare  and  precious  in- 
structions of  her  master.  Therefore, 
he  was  astonished  at  the  progress 
made  from  one  lesson  to  another ;  and 
appreciating  the  courage  of  his  young 
pupil  even  more  highly  than  her  mu- 
sical capacity,  he  obtained  for  her  the 
gratuitous  possession  of  a  piano,  thus 
enabling  her  to  study  assiduously 
without  the  care  and  expense  of  hir- 
ing one,  which,  little  as  the  latter 
might  be,  was  still  a  great  tax  upon 
her  slender  income. 

Some  time  afterward,  an  event 
occurred  in  my  mother's  life  that 
had  a  decisive  effect  upon  her  future. 

The  masters  for  piano  music  at 
that  time  in  vogue  were  dementi, 


14 

Steibelt,  Dussek,  etc.  I  make  no 
mention  in  this  connection  of  Mozart, 
who,  following  Haydn,  was  already 
shining  upon  the  musical  world  ;  nor 
of  the  great  Sebastian  Bach,  whose 
immortal  collection  of  preludes  and 
fugues,  known  as  the  "Well-Tem- 
pered Clavichord,"  had  been  for  a 
century  the  unrivaled  code  for  the 
study  of  the  piano,  and  the  breviary 
of  musical  composition.  Beethoven, 
young  yet,  had  not  attained  the 
celebrity  that  his  giant  genius  was  to 
conquer  for  him. 

It  was  then  that  a  celebrated  Ger- 
man musician — Hullmandel,  a  violin- 
ist of  great  merit,  and  a  friend  and 
contemporary  of  Beethoven — came  to 
France  with  the  intention  of  obtain- 
ing pupils  in  accompaniment.  Stop- 
ping at  Rouen,  he  wished  to  hear 
some  of  the  young  'people  most  ad- 
vanced in  musical  art.  A  sort  of 
competition  was  opened,  in  which  my 
mother  took  part,  and  had  the  honor 
of  being  particularly  remarked  and 


is 

congratulated  by  Hullmandel,  who 
selected  her  at  once  as  capable  of 
receiving  his  instructions,  and  of  be- 
ing heard  with  him  in  houses  where 
music  was  passionately  and  seriously 
cultivated. 

At  this  point  concludes  the  infor- 
mation obtained  from  my  mother  re- 
garding her  childhood  and  youth.  I 
know  no  more  of  her  life  until  the 
event  of  her  marriage,  which  took 
place  in  1806,  she  being  then  twenty- 
six  and  a  half  years  old. 

My  father,  Fran9ois-Louis  Gounod, 
born  in  1758,  was,  at  the  time  of  his 
marriage,  forty-seven  years  old.  He 
was  a  distinguished  painter,  and  my 
mother  often  told  me  that  he  was 
considered  the  best  draughtsman  of 
his  time,  by  the  great  contempo- 
rary artists,  Gerard,  Girodet,  Gue"rin, 
Joseph  Vernet,  Gros,  and  others.  I 
recall  a  saying  of  Gerard's,  repeated 
by  my  mother  with  justifiable  pride. 
This  artist,  surrounded  with  glory  and 


16 

honors,  baron  of  the  empire,  and 
possessor  of  a  great  fortune,  had  very 
fine  equipages.  Riding  one  day  in 
his  carriage,  he  met  my  father  going 
on  foot  through  the  streets  of  Paris, 
upon  which  he  immediately  cried 
out: 

"  Gounod  on  foot,  while  I  go  in  a 
carriage  !  Ah,  that  is  a  shame !  " 

My  father  was  a  pupil  of  Lepicie"  at 
the  same  time  with  Carle  Vernet  (son 
of  Joseph  and  father  of  Horace).  He 
twice  competed  for  the  grand  prix 
de  Rome.  An  act  of  his  youth,  in 
connection  with  one  of  these  com- 
petitions, will  show  the  scrupulous 
nature  of  his  conscience,  and  his 
modesty  as  an  artist  and  fellow- 
student.  The  subject  chosen  was 
"The  Adulterous  Woman."  Among 
the  competitors  with  whom  he  took 
part  was  the  painter,  Drouais,  whose 
well-known  remarkable  picture  of 
that  name  earned  for  him  the  great 
prize.  Drouais  had  permitted  my 
father  to  see  his  competing  work. 


The  latter  declared  honestly  to  his 
comrade  that  there  was  no  possible 
comparison  between  their  pictures, 
and  returning  to  his  studio,  he 
stripped  up  his  own  canvas,  judging 
it  unworthy  to  appear  by  the  side  of 
that  of  Drouais.  This  incident  shows 
the  high  degree  of  his  artistic  integ- 
rity, which  hesitated  not  an  instant 
between  the  voice  of  justice  and  that 
of  personal  interest. 

A  man  of  learning,  with  fine  per- 
ceptions and  a  highly  cultivated 
mind,  my  father  had,  nevertheless,  all 
his  life,  a  sort  of  fear  of  undertaking 
any  great  work.  Gifted  as  he  was,  it 
is,  perhaps,  to  his  frail  health  that  we 
must  look  for  an  explanation  of  this 
reluctance.  Allowance  should  also 
be  made  for  his  love  of  independ- 
ence, the  extreme  need  of  which 
made  him  doubtful  of  engaging  in  a 
work  of  long  duration.  The  follow- 
ing anecdote  will  furnish  an  exam- 
ple of  this  feeling  : 

Monsieur  Denon,  then  conservator 

2 


of  the  Museum  of  the  Louvre,  and  at 
the  same  time,  I  believe,  superintend- 
ent of  the  Royal  Museums  of  France, 
had  a  great  personal  liking  for  my 
father,  and  valued  very  highly  his 
ability  as  a  draughtsman  and  etcher. 
One  day  he  proposed  to  the  latter  the 
execution  of  a  number  of  etchings 
representing  the  collection  compris- 
ing the  cabinet  of  medals  in  the 
Louvre,  and  assuring  him  as  a  recom- 
pense for  the  finished  work  an  annual 
income  of  10,000  francs.  For  a  house- 
hold possessing  nothing,  that  was, 
especially  in  those  times,  a  fortune; 
and  there  were  husband,  wife,  and 
two  children  to  be  maintained.  But 
my  father  flatly  refused  this  offer, 
limiting  himself  to  the  filling  of  or- 
ders for  portraits  and  lithographs, 
of  which  several  are  works  of  the 
first  rank,  preserved  to  this  day  in 
families. for  which  they  were  exe- 
cuted. 

Moreover,  in  the  case  of  these  very 
portraits,  revealing  a  feeling  so  fine 


19 

and  a  talent  so  marked,  my  mother's 
indomitable  energy  was  often  indis- 
pensable in  bringing  the  task  to  a 
conclusion.  How  many  of  them 
would  have  rested  by  the  way  if  she 
had  not  put  her  hand  to  the  work? 
How  many  times  was  she,  herself, 
obliged  to  clean  and  prepare  the  pal- 
ette ?  And  this  was  not  all.  As  long 
as  it  was  the  question  of  the  human 
in  the  portrait  —  the  pose,  the  face, 
expression,  eyes,  look,  the  interior 
being,  in  fact  —  it  was  all  pleasure, 
all  enjoyment.  But  when  it  came  to 
the  details  of  the  accessories — sleeves, 
ornaments,  trimmings,  insignia,  etc. 
—  oh,  that  was  the  time  of  weakness ! 
there  was  no  more  interest ;  patience 
was  necessary;  and  it  was  then  that 
the  poor  wife  took  the  brush  and 
assumed  the  ungrateful  part  of  the 
task,  finishing  by  intelligence  and 
courage  the  work  commenced  by  tal- 
ent and  abandoned  through  dread  of 
tedium. 

My  father,  besides  his  work  as  a 


20 

painter,  had  consented,  fortunately, 
to  open  at  home  a  school  in  drawing, 
which  not  only  provided  for  the  fam- 
ily the  necessaries  of  life,  but  which 
became,  as  will  be  seen  later  on,  the 
starting  point  of  my  mother's  career 
as  a  teacher  of  the  piano. 

Such  was  the  extremely  modest 
course  of  life  in  our  poor  household 
until  the  death  of  my  father,  which 
took  place  on  the  4th  of  May,  1823,  in 
his  sixty-fourth  year,  from  inflam- 
mation of  the  lungs.  My  mother  was 
thus  left  a  widow  with  two  children 
— my  brother,  fifteen  and  a  half  years 
old,  and  myself,  five  years  of  age  the 
coming  i/th  of  June. 

In  dying,  my  father  took  with  him 
the  livelihood  of  the  family.  I  will 
now  relate  how  my  mother,  by  her 
virile  energy  and  her  incomparable 
tenderness,  more  than  compensated 
us  for  the  loss  of  the  protection  and 
support  of  the  father  who  had  been 
taken  from  us. 


21 

There  was,  at  this  time,  in  the  quai 
Voltaire,  a  lithographer,  named  Del- 
pech,  whose  name  was  to  be  seen 
long  afterward  on  the  fagade  of  the 
house  where  he  lived.  Scarcely  had 
my  mother  become  a  widow  when 
she  hurried  to  him. 

"  Delpech,"  said  she,  "  my  husband 
is  no  more  ;  I  am  left  alone,  with  two 
children  to  nourish  and  bring  up; 
from  henceforth  I  must  be  at  once 
their  father  and  their  mother.  I  will 
work  for  them,  and  I  come  to  ask  you 
two  things.  How  is  the  lithographic 
engraving  point  sharpened,  and  how 
is  the  stone  prepared  ?  I  will  answer 
for  the  rest,  and  I  beg  you  to  procure 
work  for  me." 

Her  first  care  was  to  announce  that 
she  would  continue  the  drawing- 
school  begun  by  my  father,  if  the 
parents  of  the  pupils  would  kindly 
continue  their  patronage.  With  one 
consent  the  greatest  encouragement 
and  praise  were  given  to  the  brave 
initiative  of  this  noble  and  generous 


22 

woman,  who,  instead  of  allowing  her- 
self to  be  overcome  and  buried  in 
the  sorrow  of  widowhood,  raised  and 
sustained  herself  through  her  devo- 
tion and  tenderness  as  a  mother. 

The  class  in  drawing  was,  there- 
fore, continued  and  even  rapidly  aug- 
mented by  a  great  number  of  new 
pupils.  Furthermore,  as  my  mother, 
while  well  skilled  in  drawing,  was 
also  an  excellent  musician,  the  parents 
of  her  pupils  in  the  former  art  re- 
quested her  consent  to  give  their 
daughters  lessons  in  music  also. 

She  did  not  hesitate  in  taking  up 
this  new  resource  for  meeting  the 
wants  of  her  little  family.  The  two 
branches  went  well  together  for  a 
time,  but,  as  it  is  unwise  to  exceed 
one's  strength  in  the  performance  of 
a  task,  it  became  necessary  to  choose 
between  the  two  arts,  and  music  re- 
mained mistress  of  the  situation. 

Having  known  him  so  little,  I  have 
preserved  but  few  memories  of  my 
father;  these  are,  however,  as  clear 


23 

as  if  dating  from  yesterday,  and  I 
feel,  in  retracing  them  here,  an  emo- 
tion easy  to  be  understood.  Among 
these  impressions,  I  remember  par- 
ticularly his  attitude  as  an  attentive 
reader,  seated,  with  legs  crossed,  in 
the  corner  of  the  fireplace,  wearing 
glasses,  and  dressed  in  long  cotton 
trousers,  white  striped  vest,  and  cot- 
ton cap,  such  as  were  usually  worn  by 
artists  of  his  time,  and  which  I  saw 
worn  many  years  later  by  my  illustri- 
ous and  regretted  friend,  Monsieur 
Ingres,  the  director  of  the  Academy 
of  France  at  Rome.  While  my  father 
was  thus  absorbed  in  reading,  I  used 
to  lie  flat  on  my  stomach  on  the  floor 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  drawing, 
with  a  white  crayon  on  a  varnished 
blackboard,  eyes,  noses,  and  mouths, 
for  which  he  had  already  traced  the 
copy  on  the  aforesaid  board.  I  see 
this  now  as  if  I  were  still  there,  and 
I  was  then  but  four,  or  four  and  a 
half  years  old  at  the  most.  This 
occupation  had  for  me,  I  remember, 


24 

so  great  a  charm  that  I  have  no 
doubt  if  my  father  had  lived  I 
should  have  been  a  painter  instead 
of  a  musician,  but  my  mother's  pro- 
fession and  the  education  received 
from  her  during  the  years  of  child- 
hood determined  the  balance  in  favor 
of  music. 

Soon  after  the  death  of  my  father 
in  the  house  —  which  bore,  and  still 
bears,  the  number  n,  place  Saint- 
Andre'-des-Arts  (or,  rather,  des  Arcs] — 
my  mother  established  herself  in 
other  lodgings  not  far  from  there, 
number  20,  rue  des  Grands-Augustins. 
From  this  time  date  the  first  precise 
remembrances  of  my  musical  impres- 
sions. My  mother,  in  nursing  me, 
had  certainly  made  me  imbibe  as 
much  music  as  milk.  She  never  per- 
formed that  function  without  sing- 
ing, and  I  can  say  that  I  took  my  first 
lessons  without  knowing  it,  and  with- 
out having  to  give  them  the  attention 
so  painful  to  tender  years,  and  so 
difficult  to  obtain  from  children. 


25 

Quite  unconsciously  I  thus  early 
gained  a  correct  idea  of  intonations 
and  of  the  intervals  they  represent ; 
of  the  first  elements  of  modulation, 
and  of  the  characteristic  difference 
between  the  major  and  minor  modes; 
for  one  day,  even  before  being  able  to 
speak  correctly,  upon  hearing  a  song 
in  the  minor  mode,  sung  by  some 
street  musician,  probably  a  mendi- 
cant, I  exclaimed : 

"  Mamma,  why  does  he  sing  in  'do 
(C)'  that  cries  (plore)  ?  " 

My  ear  was,  therefore,  perfectly 
trained,  and  I  easily  held  my  place 
as  pupil  in  a  vocal  class  in  which  I 
might  even  have  been  a  teacher.  My 
mother,  proud  of  seeing  her  baby  able 
to  correct  full-grown  girls  in  the 
matter  of  reading  music  (thanks  to 
herself  for  that),  could  not  resist  the 
desire  to  show  her  young  pupil  to 
some  prominent  musician.  There 
was,  at  this  time,  a  musician  named 
Jadin,  whose  son  and  grandson  have 
since  made  a  reputation  in  painting. 


26 

This  man  Jadin  was  well  known  by 
some  songs  then  in  vogue,  and  filled, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  the  position  of 
accompanist  in  Choron's  celebrated 
school  for  sacred  music.  My  mother 
wrote,  begging  him  to  kindly  call 
upon  her,  and  pass  judgment  upon 
my  musical  ability.  He  came  to  the 
house,  had  me  placed  with  my  face 
turned  from  him,  in  a  corner  of  the 
room  that  I  see  yet,  seated  himself  at 
the  piano,  and  improvised  a  series  of 
chords  and  modulations,  asking  me  at 
each  change : 

"  In  what  key  am  I  ?  " 

I  made  not  even  one  mistake. 
Jadin  was  amazed ;  my  mother  was 
jubilant. 

Poor,  dear  mother;  she  little  thought 
then  that  she  was  developing  in  her 
child  the  germs  of  a  determination 
which  was,  but  a  few  years  later,  to 
cause  her  great  anxiety  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  future,  and  upon  which 
already,  probably,  a  great  influence 
had  been  exerted  by  my  hearing  of 


27 

Robin  des  Bois  at  the  Oddon  theater, 
where  she  had  taken  me  when  six 
years  old. 

Those  who  read  these  memoirs 
will,  doubtless,  be  surprised  that  I 
have  said  nothing  concerning  my 
brother.  That  is  because  no  mem- 
ories of  him  were  connected  with 
those  of  my  early  childhood.  It  is 
only  after  arriving  at  the  age  of  six 
years  that  he  takes  place  in  my  life 
and  in  my  remembrance.  My  brother, 
Louis-Urbain  Gounod,  was  born  De_ 
cember  13,  1807.  He  was,  therefore, 
ten  and  a  half  years  older  than  myself. 
When  about  twelve  years  old,  he 
was  sent  to  the  lyceum,  at  Ver- 
sailles, where  he  remained  until  his 
eighteenth  year.  It  is  from  Versailles 
that  dates  the  first  remembrance  I 
have  of  this  excellent  brother,  who 
was  taken  away  from  me  just  when  I 
could  best  appreciate  the  worth  of 
such  a  friend. 

My  father  had  been  appointed  by 


28 

the  king,  Louis  XVIII.,  professor  of 
drawing  to  the  pages  of  his  court. 
The  king,  who  was  very  fond  of  him, 
had  authorized  our  family  to  occupy, 
during  the  time  that  we  were  at  Ver- 
sailles, lodgings  situated  in  the  vast 
building,  No.  6,  rue  de  la  Surintend- 
ance,  which  extends  from  the  Place  du 
Chdteau  to  the  rue  de  VOrangerie.  Our 
apartments,  as  I  still  see  them,  and  to 
which  ascent  was  made  by  a  number 
of  stairways  of  peculiar  arrangement, 
looked  out  upon  the  basin  of  the 
Suisses,  and  upon  the  great  woods  of 
Satory.  A  long  corridor,  that  seemed 
to  me  to  extend  farther  than  the  eye 
could  reach,  ran  past  our  apartments, 
connecting  them  with  those  occupied 
by  the  Beaumont  family,  in  which  I 
found  one  of  the  first  companions  of 
my  infancy  —  Edouard  Beaumont, 
afterward  distinguished  as  a  painter. 
Edouard's  father  was  a  sculptor  and 
restorer  of  the  statues  in  the  palace 
and  park  of  Versailles ;  it  was  in  this 
capacity  that  he  occupied  the  lodging 


29 

next  to  ours.  After  the  death  of  my 
father,  in  1823,  the  privilege  was  still 
allowed  us  of  sojourning  during  the 
summer  vacation  in  the  buildings 
of  the  Surintendance;  this  favor  was 
continued  under  the  reign  of  Charles 
X.,  that  is  to  say,  until  1830,  but  was 
withheld  upon  the  accession  of  Louis 
Philippe.  My  brother,  who  was,  as  I 
have  said,  in  the  lyceum  at  Versailles, 
passed  his  vacations  with  us  there. 

There  was  at  Versailles  an  old  mu- 
sician named  Rousseau,  chapel  master 
of  the  palace.  Rousseau  played  the 
violoncello  (or  bass,  as  it  was  then 
called),  and  my  mother  employed  him 
to  give  lessons  on  that  instrument  to 
my  brother,  who  was  gifted  with  a 
charming  voice,  and  often  sang  at 
the  services  in  the  palace  chapel. 
I  can  not  say  whether  this  old  father 
Rousseau  played  his  bass  well  or  ill ; 
but  I  do  remember  that  my  brother 
gave  me  the  impression  of  not  being 
very  clever  on  his  instrument,  and, 
as  I  did  not  understand  what  it  was 


30 

to  be  a  beginner,  I  thought  instinct- 
ively that  if  one  played  an  instru- 
ment at  all,  it  could  not  be  otherwise 
than  in  tune.  The  idea  that  one 
could  play  out  of  tune  never  entered 
my  little  head.  One  day,  hearing 
my  brother  practicing  his  bass  in  the 
next  room,  and  being  struck  with  the 
number  of  more  than  doubtful  pas- 
sages from  whicn  my  ear  was  suffer- 
ing, I  said  to  my  mother : 

"  Mamma,  why  is  Urbain's  bass  so 
false  ?  " 

I  do  not  remember  her  reply,  but 
she  must  surely  have  been  amused  at 
the  naivett  of  my  question.  I  have 
stated  that  my  brother  had  a  very- 
fine  voice,  which  fact  was  later  con- 
firmed by  the  opinion  of  Wartel, 
who  often  sang  with  him  in  the 
chapel  at  Versailles,  and  who,  after 
having  been  in  Choron's  music 
school,  became  a  member  of  the 
opera  company  in  the  time  of  Nour- 
rit,  afterward  acquiring  a  great  and 
well-earned  reputation  as  a  teacher. 


3i 

In  1825  my  mother  fell  ill,  I  being 
then  nearly  seven  years  old.  Her 
physician,  for  a  long  time,  was  Doctor 
Baffos,  who  was  present  at  my  birth, 
and  who  became  our  family  physi- 
cian after  Doctor  Halle,  by  whom  he 
was  recommended.  Baffos,  seeing  in 
my  presence  in  the  house  a  super- 
addition  of  fatigue  for  my  mother, 
whose  days  were  passed  in  giving 
lessons  at  home,  suggested  the  idea 
of  having  me  taken  every  morning  to 
school,  and  brought  home  every  night 
before  dinner.  The  school  selected 
was  that  of  a  Monsieur  Boniface,  near 
the  School  of  Medicine,  not  far  from 
the  rue  des  Grands- Augustins,  where 
we  were  living.  This  school  was 
transferred  a  short  time  afterward 
to  the  rue  de  Conde",  almost  oppo- 
site the  Ode'on  theater.  It  was  there 
that  I  first  saw  Duprez,  who  was  des- 
tined to  be  one  day  that  well-known 
great  tenor  who  shone  with  such 
brilliancy  upon  the  stage  of  the 
Ode'on.  Duprez,  who  was  nearly  nine 


32 

years  older  than  I,  was  then  sixteen 
or  seventeen  years  of  age.  He  was 
a  pupil  of  Choron,  and  came  to  the 
Boniface  school  as  a  vocal  teacher. 
Seeing  that  I  read  music  as  easily  as 
one  reads  a  book,  and  even  more 
rapidly  than  I  could  probably  read  it 
to-day,  he  took  a  special  liking  for 
me.  Seating  me  upon  his  knees, 
when  my  little  comrades  made  mis- 
takes, he  used  to  say  : 

"  Come,  little  man,  show  them  how 
to  do  it." 

When,  many  years  later,  I  recalled 
this  circumstance  to  him,  so  long  past 
for  him  as  well  as  for  me,  he  was 
greatly  struck  with  it,  and  said : 

"  Comment!  you  were  the  little  fel- 
low, then,  who  sang  so  well  ?" 

Meanwhile  I  was  approaching  the 
age  when  it  became  necessary  to 
think  of  having  me  begin  work  under 
conditions  more  serious  than  were 
offered  in  a  house  which  more  re- 
sembled a  kindergarten  than  a  school. 
I  was,  therefore,  placed  as  a  boarder 


33 

in  the  institution  of  M.  Letellier,  rue 
de  Vaugirard,  at  the  corner  of  the 
rue  Fe"rou.  M.  Letellier  was  soon 
succeeded  by  M.  de  Reusse,  whose 
house  I  left  at  the  end  of  a  year  to 
enter  the  boarding-school  of  Hallays- 
Dabot,  Place  de  V Estrapade,  near  the 
Pantheon. 

I  recall  M.  Hallays-Dabot  and  his 
wife  as  clearly  as  if  they  stood  before 
me.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine 
treatment  more  kind,  benevolent,  and 
tender  than  that  I  received  from 
them.  I  was  touched  to  such  an 
extent  that  my  first  impression  was 
sufficient  to  instantly  dissipate  my 
fears,  and  make  me  accept  with  con- 
fidence the  trial  of  a  new  regime  for 
which  I  felt  an  insurmountable  re- 
pugnance. It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  almost  found  a  father,  and  that 
with  him  I  had  nothing  to  fear. 

In  fact  I  have  no  unpleasant  re- 
membrance of  the  two  years  passed 
in  his  house.  His  affection  for  me 
never  ceased;  I  always  found  him 

3 


34 

equally  just  and  kind,  and  when,  at 
the  age  of  eleven  years,  it  was  de- 
cided to  place  me  in  the  Lycte  St. 
Louis,  M.  Hallays-Dabot  gave  me  a 
certificate  so  flattering  that  I  abstain 
from  reproducing  it.  I  regard  it  as 
a  duty  to  here  make  this  acknowl- 
edgment of  what  he  was  to  me. 

The  good  recommendations,  under 
the  protection  of  which  I  left  the 
institution  of  Hallays-Dabot,  assisted 
in  obtaining  for  me  in  the  Lycte  St. 
Louis  a  "quart  de  bourse."  I  went  in 
upon  these  conditions  at  the  close  of 
the  vacation,  that  is,  in  the  month  of 
October,  1829.  I  had  just  passed  my 
eleventh  birthday. 

The  principal  of  the  lyceum  was 
then  a  priest,  the  Abbe  Ganser,  a 
man  gentle,  serious,  reserved,  and 
fatherly  with  his  pupils.  I  was  ad- 
mitted at  once  into  the  class  known 
as  the  sixth.  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  have  as  a  teacher,  from  the  begin- 
ning, the  man  whom,  without  excep- 
tion, I  loved  the  most  of  all  during 


35 

my  school  days  —  my  beloved  and 
venerable  master  and  friend,  Adolphe 
Regnier,  member  of  the  Institute  of 
France,  who  was  also  the  preceptor 
and  has  remained  the  friend  of  the 
Comte  de  Paris. 

I  was  not  a  bad  pupil,  and  my 
masters  generally  loved  me,  but  I 
was  dreadfully  thoughtless,  and  often 
brought  punishment  upon  myself  for 
waste  of  time ;  rather,  however,  dur- 
ing hours  of  study  than  in  the  class. 
I  have  said  that  I  entered  the  St. 
Louis  with  a  "quart  de  bourse"  that  is, 
with  a  quarter  less  to  pay  than  the 
usual  charge.  It  was  for  me  to  suc- 
ceed, little  by  little,  by  good  reports 
of  conduct  and  progress,  in  relieving 
my  mother  of  the  expense  of  the 
school,  by  gradually  obtaining  the 
" demi  bourse"  (half  purse),  then  the 
three-quarters,  and  finally  the  "  bourse 
enttire"  (whole  purse);  and,  as  I  adored 
my  mother,  and  my  greatest  happi- 
ness would  have  been  to  aid  her  by 
my  application  to  study,  it  seems  as 


36 

if  this  thought  ought  not  to  have 
deserted  me  for  an  instant.  But, 
alas !  "  Chassez  le  nature  I,  il  revient 
au  galop!"  And  my  "  naturel"  gal- 
loped very  often  —  far  too  often! 

One  day  I  was  punished,  I  do  not 
know  for  what  shortcoming  of  inat- 
tention, or  task  unfinished,  or  lesson 
unlearned.  The  punishment  seemed 
to  me  in  excess  of  the  fault,  and 
I  protested,  which  resulted  in  the 
additional  penalty  of  being  placed 
in  solitary  confinement  in  the  cell 
used  for  correction  of  pupils,  and 
where  I  had  to  live  on  bread  and 
water  until  I  had  finished  an  enor- 
mous task  consisting  of,  I  can  not 
remember,  how  many  lines  to  write 
—  500  or  i  ,000  —  an  absurdity!  When 
I  found  myself  in  prison,  oh,  then  I 
felt  like  a  criminal !  The  cry  of  the 
Eumenides  to  Orestes,  "He  has  killed 
his  mother!"  could  not  have  been 
more  frightful  than  the  thoughts 
that  assailed  me  at  the  moment  when 
they  brought  me  the  bread  and  water 


37 

of  the  condemned.  I  looked  at  my 
piece  of  bread  and  burst  into  tears : 

"  Scoundrel,  rascal,  wretch ! "  said  I 
to  myself ;  "  it  is  the  labor  of  your 
mother  that  earns  for  you  this  piece 
of  bread !  Your  mother,  who  will 
come  to  see  you  at  the  hour  of  recrea- 
tion, to  whom  it  will  be  reported  that 
you  are  in  prison,  and  who  will  go 
home  weeping  through  the  streets, 
without  having  seen  or  embraced 
you.  You  are  a  good-for-nothing,  and 
not  worthy  even  to  eat  this  bread!" 

And  the  bread  was  left  untasted. 

However,  when  once  more  in  the 
usual  routine  of  the  school,  I  worked 
very  well,  and,  thanks  to  the  prize 
that  I  carried  off  each  year,  I  was  in 
the  way  of  obtaining  that  "  bourse 
en t tire"  the  object  of  all  my  wishes. 

There  was  at  the  Lycte  St.  Louis 
a  chapel  in  which  high  mass  was 
celebrated  every  Sunday.  The  gal- 
lery was  divided  into  two  parts  and 
ran  across  the  whole  width  of  the 
chapel.  In  one  of  these  parts  were 


38 

the  organ  and  the  seats  reserved  for 
the  singers.  The  chapel  master,  at 
the  time  I  entered  the  lyceum,  was 
Hippolyte  Monpou,  then  employed 
as  accompanist  at  the  Choron  school 
of  music,  and  who  has  since  become 
known  by  several  melodies  and  dra- 
matic works  that  have  made  his  name 
very  popular. 

Thanks  to  the  musical  education 
received  from  my  mother  from  my 
most  tender  infancy,  I  read  music  at 
first  sight.  I  had,  besides,  a  very 
good  and  true  voice,  and  when  I 
entered  the  school  was  presented 
at  once  to  Monpou,  who  was  aston- 
ished at  my  ability,  and  immediately 
appointed  me  soprano  soloist  of  his 
little  musical  band,  consisting  of  two 
first  sopranos,  two  second  sopranos, 
two  tenors,  and  two  basses. 

An  imprudence  of  Monpou's  caused 
the  loss  of  my  voice.  He  continued 
to  have  me  sing  during  the  time  of 
change,  in  spite  of  the  rest  and  quiet 
required  by  this  transformation  of 


39 

the  vocal  organs,  and  after  that  I 
never  acquired  again  the  force,  sonor- 
ity, and  timbre  possessed  as  a  child, 
and  which  are  the  necessary  qualities 
of  a  good  voice.  Mine  remained  weak 
and  husky.  But  for  that  accident,  I 
think  I  should  have  made  a  good 
singer. 

The  revolution  of  1830  put  an  end 
to  the  principalship  of  the  Abbe  Gan- 
ser.  He  was  replaced  by  M.  Liez,  an 
old  professor  of  the  Lycte  Henry  IV., 
very  much  devoted  to  the  new  rt- 
gime,  and  a  zealous  advocate  of  the 
military  exercises  then  being  intro- 
duced into  the  schools,  and  at  which 
he  was  always  present,  standing  with 
head  erect,  and  right  hand  slipped  ct 
la  Napotion  between  the  buttons  of 
his  redingote,  in  an  attitude  of  drill- 
master  or  chief  of  battalion.  After 
two  years,  M.  Liez  was  himself  re- 
placed by  M.  Poirson,  under  whose 
directorship  began  the  events  that 
decided  the  course  of  my  life. 


40 

Among  the  faults  of  which  I  was 
the  most  frequently  guilty,  there  was 
one  for  which  I  had  a  particular  weak- 
ness. I  adored  music,  and  from  this 
passionate  fondness,  which  deter- 
mined the  choice  of  my  career,  arose 
the  first  tempests  that  troubled  my 
young  existence.  Whoever  has  been 
brought  up  in  a  lyceum  knows  the 
festival  so  dear  to  schoolboys  —  that 
of  St.  Charlemagne.  It  is  a  great 
banquet,  in  which  all  pupils  take  part 
who  have,  since  the  beginning  of  the 
school  year,  stood  once  in  the  first  or 
twice  in  the  second  place  in  the  class 
for  composition.  This  banquet  is  fol- 
lowed by  a  leave  of  absence  of  two 
days,  which  allows  the  pupils  to  "  ctt- 
coucher"  that  is,  to  pass  one  night  at 
home — a  pleasure  very  rare,  an  in- 
dulgence greatly  envied  by  all.  The 
festival  falls  in  the  middle  of  winter. 
In  the  year  1831, 1  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  be  bidden  to  this  banquet, 
and,  as  a  reward,  my  mother  promised 
that  I  might  go  in  the  evening  with 


41 

my  brother  to  the  Theatre  des  Italiens, 
to  hear  Rossini's  Othello.  Malibran 
was  playing  the  part  of  Desdemona ; 
Rubini,  that  of  Othello ;  Lablache, 
that  of  the  father.  The  anticipation 
of  this  pleasure  made  me  wild  with 
joy  and  impatience.  I  remember  that 
it  took  away  my  appetite,  so  that  at 
dinner  my  mother  was  obliged  to  say : 

"  See  here !  If  you  do  not  eat,  you 
can  not  go  to  the  Italiens" 

I  immediately  set  myself  to  eat 
with  resignation.  The  dinner  hour 
was  very  early,  inasmuch  as  we  could 
not  afford  tickets  in  advance,  and  it 
would  be  necessary  to  stand  in  line  to 
get  places  in  the  parquet  at  3  francs, 
75  centimes  each,  which  was,  even  at 
that  figure,  a  great  outlay  for  my 
poor,  dear  mother.  It  was  bitter 
cold,  and  my  brother  and  I  waited, 
with  frozen  feet,  nearly  two  hours 
for  the  moment  so  ardently  wished 
for,  and  the  crowd  began  to  give 
way  before  the  ticket  office.  We 
finally  entered.  Never  shall  I  forget 


42 


the  impression  received  at  the  sight 
of  that  interior,  of  the  curtain,  of 
the  chandeliers.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  in  a  temple,  and  that 
something  divine  was  to  be  revealed 
to  me.  The  solemn  moment  arrived  ; 
the  three  customary  raps  were  given, 
and  the  overture  was  about  to  com- 
mence. My  heart  was  beating  to 
burst  my  breast!  That  representa- 
tion was  an  enchantment,  a  delirium. 
Malibran,  Rubini,  Lablache,  Tambu- 
rini  (who  played  lago),  the  voices, 
the  orchestra  —  all  made  me  literally 
wild. 

I  emerged  from  the  theater  thor- 
oughly at  variance  with  the  prose  of 
real  life,  and  completely  wrapped  up 
in  that  dream  of  the  ideal  which  had 
become  my  atmosphere,  my  fixed  pur- 
pose. I  did  not  close  my  eyes  that 
night!  I  was  beset,  possessed!  I 
thought  of  nothing  but  of  produc- 
ing —  I  also  —  an  Othello  !  (Alas,  my 
exercises  and  translations  suffered 
severely,  and  soon  showed  the  effect 


43 

of  this  madness !)  I  hurried  off  my 
work  without  first  writing  it  in  the 
rough,  making  at  once  a  copy  on 
finishing  paper,  so  as  to  be  the  more 
quickly  rid  of  it,  and  to  have  my  un- 
divided time  for  my  favorite  occupa- 
tion —  musical  composition  —  which 
seemed  to  me  the  only  thing  worthy 
of  my  attention  or  thoughts.  This 
was  the  source  of  many  tears  and  of 
great  sorrows.  My  teacher,  seeing 
me  scribbling  one  day  on  music  paper, 
approached  me,  and  asked  for  my  ex- 
ercise. I  handed  him  my  finished 
copy. 

"And  your  rough  copy  ?  "  added  he. 

As  I  could  not  produce  it,  he  took 
possession  of  my  music  paper  and 
tore  it  into  a  thousand  pieces.  I  re- 
monstrated ;  he  punished  me ;  I  pro- 
tested, and  appealed  to  the  principal. 
Result  —  kept  in  after  school,  extra 
task,  solitary  confinement,  etc. 

This  first  persecution,  far  from  cur- 
ing me,  only  inflamed  more  violently 


44 

my  musical  ardor,  and  I  resolved 
henceforth  to  be  careful  to  secure  the 
enjoyment  of  my  pleasures  by  the 
regular  fulfillment  of  my  duties  as 
a  student.  At  this  juncture  I  deter- 
mined to  address  to  my  mother  a 
sort  of  profession  of  faith,  formally 
declaring  my  positive  wish  to  be  an 
artist.  I  had,  at  one  time,  hesitated 
between  painting  and  music ;  but 
finally  feeling  more  inclination  to 
express  my  ideas  in  music,  I  settled 
upon  the  latter  choice. 

My  mother  was  completely  over- 
come, as  may  well  be  understood. 
She  had  known  from  experience  the 
hardships  and  uncertainty  of  the  life 
of  an  artist,  and  probably  dreaded 
for  me  a  second  edition  of  the  scarcely 
fortunate  existence  she  had  shared 
with  my  father.  Therefore,  she  came, 
greatly  excited,  to  tell  her  troubles  to 
the  principal,  M.  Poirson.  He  re- 
assured her,  saying : 

"  Do  not  fear ;  your  son  will  not  be 
a  musician  ;  he  is  a  good  little  pupil ; 


45 

he  works  hard ;  his  teachers  are 
pleased  with  him.  I  will  see  to  it 
that  he  is  pushed  forward  to  the  Nor- 
mal School.  Rest  assured,  Madame 
Gounod,  he  will  not  be  a  musician." 

My  mother  went  away  very  much 
comforted.  The  principal  called  me 
into  his  office. 

"  Eh,  bien,"  said  he  to  me,  "  how  is 
this  ?  You  wish  to  be  a  musician  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Ah,  but  you  do  not  think  what 
that  means !  To  be  a  musician 
amounts  to  nothing  in  the  world." 

"What,  monsieur!  It  is  nothing 
to  be  Mozart  ?  Rossini  ?  " 

And  I  felt  while  replying  to  him 
that  my  little  head  of  thirteen  or 
fourteen  years  threw  itself  backward. 
Instantly  the  face  of  my  interlocutor 
changed  expression. 

"Ah ! "  said  he,  "  that  is  what  you 
think  about  it.  Very  well,  we  will 
see  if  you  are  able  to  make  a  musi- 
cian. I  have  had  a  box  at  the  Italiens 
for  ten  years,  and  I  am  a  good  judge." 


46 

He  then  opened  a  drawer  and, 
taking  out  a  paper,  began  to  write 
some  verses.  This  being  finished, 
he  handed  me  the  paper,  saying : 

"Take  this  away  and  set  it  to 
music." 

I  was  delighted.  I  left  him  and 
went  back  to  my  studies.  On  the 
way  to  the  class-room  I  looked  over 
with  feverish  anxiety  the  written 
lines.  They  were  the  song  of  Joseph, 
"A  peine  au  sortir  de  renfance  .  .  .  ' 
I  knew  nothing  of  Joseph,  nor  of 
Mehul.  I  was  neither  hindered  nor 
intimidated  by  any  remembrance. 
It  may  easily  be  imagined  how  little 
interest  I  felt  for  my  Latin  exercise 
in  this  moment  of  musical  intoxica- 
tion. My  song  was  written  during 
the  following  recreation  hour.  I 
ran  in  haste  with  it  to  the  principal. 

"  What  is  it,  my  child  ?  " 

"  My  song  is  finished." 

"  What,  already  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Let  us  see ;  sing  it  to  me." 


47 

"  But,  sir,  I  need  a  piano  for  my 
accompaniment." 

Monsieur  Poirson  had  a  daughter 
studying-  the  piano,  and  I  knew  there 
was  one  in  the  adjoining  room. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  that  is  unnec- 
essary. I  do  not  need  a  piano." 

"  But  I  do,  sir,  for  my  chords." 

"And  where  are  they,  your  chords  ?" 

"  Here,  sir,"  said  I,  pointing  to  my 
forehead. 

"Ah !  very  well ;  but  it  makes  no 
difference  to  me ;  sing  all  the  same. 
I  shall  understand  very  well  without 
the  chords." 

I  saw  that  I  had  to  do  without 
accompaniment,  and  began ;  but  I  was 
scarcely  in  the  middle  of  the  first  part 
when  I  perceived  the  face  of  my 
judge  softening.  This  encouraged 
me,  and  I  commenced  to  feel  that 
victory  was  on  my  side.  I  went  on 
with  confidence,  and,  when  the  song 
was  finished,  the  principal  said : 

"  Now,  then  ;  come  to  the  piano." 

I  triumphed  at  once  ;  I  had  all  my 


48 

weapons  in  my  hands.  I  recom- 
menced my  little  exercise,  and  at 
the  end  poor  Monsieur  Poirson,  com- 
pletely vanquished,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  took  my  head  in  his  two  hands 
and  embracing  me,  said : 

"  Go  on,  my  child,  with  your  music." 

My  dear,  sainted  mother  had  acted 
prudently ;  her  resistance  was  a  duty 
dictated  by  her  solicitude ;  for,  aside 
from  the  danger  of  giving  too  easy 
consent  to  my  wishes,  there  was  also 
the  grave  responsibility  of  hindering 
my  natural  vocation.  The  encour- 
agement given  me  by  M.  Poirson 
deprived  her  of  the  chief  support  of 
her  opposition  to  my  plans,  and  of 
the  assistance  upon  which  she  had 
most  counted  to  turn  me  from  them. 
The  assault  had  been  made,  the 
siege  commenced;  it  was  necessary 
to  capitulate.  She,  however,  took  as 
long  a  time  as  possible,  and  fearing 
to  yield  too  quickly  and  too  easily  to 
my  wishes,  thought  of  and  adopted 
the  following  expedient : 


49 

There  was  then  in  Paris  a  German 
musician  who  enjoyed  a  high  reputa- 
tion as  a  theorist — Antoine  Reicha  by 
name.  Besides  his  duties  as  professor 
of  composition  at  the  Conservatory, 
of  which  Cherubini  was  then  director, 
Reicha  gave  private  lessons  at  home. 
My  mother  thought  of  putting  me  in 
his  hands,  and  requested  of  the  prin- 
cipal of  the  lyceum  the  privilege  of 
taking  me  on  Sundays,  at  the  time 
the  school  went  out  for  a  promenade, 
to  M.  Reicha  instead,  for  the  purpose 
of  beginning  the  study  of  harmony, 
counterpoint,  and  fugue  —  or,  in  a 
word,  to  learn  the  preliminaries  of 
the  art  of  composition.  My  going, 
my  lesson,  and  my  return  to  the 
school  would  take  about  the  same 
time  as  that  given  to  the  promenade, 
and  my  regular  studies  would  not 
suffer  on  account  of  this  favor  of  an 
exceptional  outing.  The  principal 
consented,  and  I  was  taken  to  M. 
Reicha. ;  but,  when  confiding  me  to 
him,  my  mother  privately  said,  as  she 

4 


so 

afterward  related  to  me,  the  follow- 
ing words : 

"  My  dear  M.  Reicha,  I  bring  you 
my  son,  a  child  who  declares  that  he 
wishes  to  devote  himself  to  musical 
composition.  I  bring  him  against 
my  will.  An  artistic  career  for  him 
frightens  me,  for  I  know  with  what 
difficulties  it  bristles.  However,  I  do 
not  wish  to  have  to  reproach  myself, 
nor  to  give  him  the  right  to  reproach 
me  in  future  years  for  having  hin- 
dered his  ambition,  or  put  obstacles 
in  the  way  of  his  happiness.  I  desire, 
therefore,  to  be  assured  at  the  outset, 
that  his  talents  are  real  and  his  call- 
ing well  defined.  For  this  reason  I 
desire  to  have  you  put  him  to  a  seri- 
ous test.  Place  before  him  difficul- 
ties ;  if  he  is  really  called  to  be  an 
artist,  they  will  not  repel  him  ;  he  will 
conquer  them.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
he  becomes  discouraged,  I  shall  know 
what  to  do,  and  shall  certainly  not 
allow  him  to  embark  in  a  career,  the 
first  difficulties  of  which  he  has  not 
the  courage  to  overcome." 


51 

Reicha  promised  to  submit  me  to 
the  regime  demanded  by  my  mother ; 
and  he  kept  his  word,  as  far  as  in 
him  lay.  As  samples  of  my  boyish 
talent,  I  took  to  him  several  pages  of 
music,  containing  songs,  preludes, 
bits  of  waltzes,  and  what-not  else  that 
had  passed  through  my  little  head. 
Looking  over  these,  he  said  to  my 
mother : 

"  That  child  already  knows  a  great 
deal  of  what  I  have  to  teach  him ;  but 
he  does  not  know  that  he  knows  it." 

When,  at  the  end  of  one  or  two 
years,  I  had  come  to  exercises  in  har- 
mony something  more  than  element- 
ary, to  counterpoint  of  all  kinds,  to 
fugues,  canons,  etc.,  my  mother  asked 
him: 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  think,  dear  madame,  that  there 
is  no  way  of  tiring  him ;  nothing  re- 
pels him;  everything  amuses  him, 
everything  interests  him;  and  what 
pleases  me  the  most  is  that  he  always 
wants  to  know  the  '  why.'  " 


52 

"Very  well,"  said  she,  "  I  must  be 
resigned  then." 

I  knew  that  with  my  mother  there 
was  no  trifling.  Several  times  she 
had  said  to  me : 

"You  know,  if  you  do  not  do  well  — 
quick,  a  carriage,  and  to  the  notary ! " 

The  notary  !  That  was  enough  to 
make  me  accomplish  impossibilities. 
Furthermore,  my  reports  from  school 
were  good,  and  in  spite  of  the  threat 
suspended  ovei  me  of  making  me  go 
twice  through  the  same  studies,  in 
order  to  prolong  my  time  in  school,  I 
was  careful  not  to  give  my  teachers 
the  right  to  consider  my  musical  pas- 
sion detrimental  to  my  other  work. 
One  time,  however,  I  was  punished, 
and  that  very  severely,  for  not  having 
finished  some  exercise.  The  teacher 
kept  me  in  after  school,  with  a  tre- 
mendous task  —  something  like  500 
verses  to  copy.  I  was  scrawling  away, 
with  that  careless  rapidity  with  which 
one  usually  does  such  tasks,  when 
the  preceptor  approached  the  table. 


53 

After  having  observed  me  for  some 
moments  in  silence,  he  laid  his 
hand  gently  upon  my  shoulder  and 
said : 

"  That  is  very  badly  written — what 
you  are  doing  there !  " 

Raising  my  head,  I  replied : 

"  Tiens !  perhaps  you  think  it  is 
amusing!" 

"  It  is  tiresome  because  you  are 
doing  it  badly;  if  you  would  take 
more  care,"  added  he,  quietly,  "it 
would  not  be  so  tedious." 

This  simple  remark,  so  full  of  good 
sense,  so  quiet,  and  spoken  with  a 
tone  of  patient  and  persuasive  kind- 
ness, put  such  a  new  light  upon  the 
matter,  that  since  that  day  I  do  not 
remember  ever  to  have  been  negli- 
gent or  thoughtless  at  my  work.  It 
was  a  sudden  revelation,  complete 
and  convincing,  of  the  secret  of 
attention  and  application.  I  set  myself 
again  to  my  task,  which  was  finished 
with  quite  a  different  feeling,  and  my 
ennui  disappeared  under  the  content- 


54 

ment  and  benefit  derived  from  the 
good  advice  just  received. 

In  the  meantime,  my  musical  stud- 
ies were  followed  with  satisfactory 
results,  becoming  more  and  more 
absorbing.  A  vacation  of  several 
days  arrived  (that  of  the  New  Year), 
of  which  my  mother  took  advantage 
to  procure  for  me  a  pleasure  that  was 
at  the  same  time  a  great  and  impres- 
sive lesson.  They  were  giving  Mo- 
zart's Don  Giovanni,  at  the  It  aliens, 
to  a  hearing  of  which  she  took  me 
herself;  and  that  heavenly  evening 
spent  with  her  in  a  little  box  on  the 
fourth  floor  of  that  theater  is  one  of 
the  most  memorable  and  delightful 
of  my  life.  I  can  not  say  if  my 
memory  is  correct,  but  I  think  it 
was  Reicha  who  advised  her  to  take 
me  to  hear  Don  Giovanni. 

Before  describing  the  emotion  pro- 
duced in  me  by  that  incomparable 
chef-d"ceuvre,  I  ask  myself  if  my  pen 
can  ever  transcribe  it — I  do  not  say 


55 

faithfully,  as  that  would  be  impossi- 
ble— but  at  least  in  a  manner  to  give 
some  idea  of  what  went  on  in  my 
mind  during  those  few  hours,  the 
charm  of  which  has  dominated  my 
life  like  a  luminous  apparition,  or  a 
kind  of  vision  of  revelation. 

From  the  very  beginning  of  the 
overture  I  felt  myself  transported 
into  an  absolutely  new  world,  by  the 
solemn  and  majestic  chords  of  the 
final  scene  of  the  Commandant.  I 
was  seized  with  a  freezing  terror; 
and  when  came  the  threatening  pro- 
gression over  which  are  unrolled 
those  ascending  and  descending 
scales,  fatal  and  inexorable  as  a  sen- 
tence of  death,  I  was  overcome  with 
such  a  fright  that  I  hid  my  face 
upon  my  mother's  shoulder,  and  thus 
enveloped  in  the  double  embrace  of 
the  beautiful  and  the  terrible,  I  mur- 
mured the  following  words : 

"  Oh  !  mamma,  what  music !  that 
is,  indeed,  real  music ! " 

The  hearing  of    Rossini's   Othello 


56 

stirred  in  me  the  fibers  of  musical 
instinct,  but  the  effect  produced  by 
Don  Juan  fyad  quite  another  significa- 
tion, and  an  entirely  different  result. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  between  these 
two  kinds  of  impressions  there  must 
be  something  analogous  to  that  felt 
by  a  painter  in  passing  directly  from 
contact  with  the  Venetian  masters 
to  that  with  Raphael,  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  and  Michael  Angelo.  Rossini 
gave  me  to  know  the  intoxication  of 
purely  musical  delight;  he  charmed 
me,  delighted  my  ear.  Mozart  did 
more ;  to  that  enjoyment  so  complete, 
from  an  exclusively  musical  and  emo- 
tional point  of  view,  was  then  added 
the  profound  and  penetrating  influ- 
ence of  true  expression  united  to  per- 
fect beauty.  It  was,  from  one  end  to 
the  other  of  the  score,  a  long  and 
inexpressible  delight.  The  pathetic 
tones  of  the  trio  at  the  death  of  the 
Commandant,  and  of  Donna  Anna's 
lament  over  the  body  of  her  father, 
the  charming  grace  of  Zerlina,  the 


57 

supreme  and  stately  elegance  of 
the  trio  of  the  Masks,  and  of  that 
which  begins  the  second  act  under 
Donna  Elvira's  window  —  all,  finally 
(for  in  this  immortal  work  all  must  be 
mentioned),  created  for  me  that  beati- 
tude one  feels  only  in  the  presence  of 
the  essentially  beautiful  things  that 
hold  the  admiration  of  the  centuries, 
and  serve  to  fix  the  height  of  the 
esthetic  level  of  perfection  in  art. 
This  representation  counts  as  one  of 
the  most  cherished  holiday  gifts  of 
my  childhood,  and  later,  when  I  had 
won  the  prix  de  Rome,  it  was  the 
full  score  of  Don  Juan  that  my  dear 
mother  gave  me  as  a  reward. 

That  year  was,  as  it  happened,  par- 
ticularly favorable  to  the  develop- 
ment of  my  love  of  music.  During 
Holy  Week,  I  heard  two  concerts  by 
the  concert  society  of  the  Conserva- 
tory, then  directed  by  Habeneck.  At 
one  of  these,  Beethoven's  Pastoral 
Symphony  was  played;  and  at  the 
other,  the  symphony  with  chorus,  by 


58 

the  same  master.  A  new  inspiration 
was  then  given  to  my  musical  ardor, 
and  I  remember  that,  while  these  two 
compositions  revealed  to  me  the  lofty, 
bold  individuality  of  this  singular 
and  gigantic  genius,  I  also  instinct- 
ively recognized  in  them  a  manner 
of  expression  similar,  in  many  re- 
spects, at  least,  to  that  into  which  the 
hearing  of  Don  Juan  had  initiated 
me.  Something  told  me  that  these 
two  great  geniuses,  so  differently  in- 
comparable, had  a  common  country, 
and  belonged  to  the  same  school. 

My  time  at  the  lyceum  was  passing 
rapidly  away.  Among  the  means  to 
which  my  mother  had  recourse  to 
force  me  to  reflect  upon  the  conse- 
quences of  my  determination,  besides 
that  of  counting  somewhat  on  keep- 
ing me  another  year  in  school,  by 
having  me  go  twice  over  the  same 
studies,  she  hoped  to  dissuade  me  by 
declaring  that  if  I  held  an  unlucky 
number  in  the  drawing  of  lots  for 
the  military  conscription,  she  would 


59 

be  obliged  to  let  me  go,  being  too 
poor  to  pay  for  a  substitute.  Evi- 
dently that  was  only  a  subterfuge  — 
the  poor  woman  who  had  eaten  dry 
bread  more  than  once,  so  that  her 
children  should  lack  nothing,  would 
have  sold  her  bed  rather  than  be 
separated  from  one  of  us ;  and,  as  I 
was  of  an  age  to  feel  and  comprehend 
how  much  such  a  life  of  devotion  and 
sacrifice  imposed  upon  me  in  the 
way  of  respect  and  love  for  my 
mother,  I  said  to  her : 

"  Very  well,  dear  mamma ;  say  no 
more  about  it ;  I  will  look  out  for 
that;  I  will  exempt  myself;  I  shall 
have  the  prix  de  Rome" 

I  was  then  in  the  third  class,  in 
which  a  circumstance  had  happened 
that  attracted  to  me  special  consid- 
eration among  my  comrades.  One 
of  our  professors,  M.  Roberge,  was 
particularly  fond  of  Latin  poetry. 
To  be  clever  in  Latin  verse  was  to  be 
sure  of  conquering  his  good  graces. 


60 

One  day  the  boys  had  played  some 
trick  upon  him,  the  perpetrator  of 
which  would  not  confess  his  fault, 
and  no  one  else  was  allowed  to  reveal 
the  secret.  On  account  of  this  refusal 
to  confess,  M.  Roberge  punished  the 
whole  class  by  depriving  us  of  leave  of 
absence.  As  the  Easter  vacation  was 
approaching  —  a  vacation  of  perhaps 
three  or  four  days'  duration  —  the 
punishment  promised  to  be  dreadful. 
Nevertheless,  the  spirit  of  our  boy- 
ish solidarity  did  not  falter,  and  the 
guilty  one  remained  unknown. 

The  idea  came  to  me  of  taking  M. 
Roberge  on  his  weak  side,  and  of 
trying  to  unbend  him.  Saying  noth- 
ing to  my  comrades,  I  composed  a 
piece  of  Latin  poetry,  the  subject  of 
which  was  the  grief  of  little  birds 
immured  in  a  cage,  far  from  the  fields, 
the  woods,  the  sun,  the  air,  begging 
for  their  liberty  with  piteous  cries. 
It  must  be  that  the  feeling  under 
the  dictation  of  which  my  verses 
were  written  brought  me  good  luck. 


61 

On  going  into  the  class-room,  I  took 
advantage  of  a  moment  when  the 
attention  of  M.  Roberge  was  turned 
in  another  direction,  and  furtively 
laid  my  little  composition  on  his 
chair.  Returning  to  his  seat,  he 
noticed  the  paper,  unfolded  it,  and 
began  to  read.  Then  he  asked : 

"  Messieurs,  who  is  the  author  of 
this  poetry?" 

I  raised  my  hand. 

"It  is  very  good,"  said  he;  then 
added  :  "  Messieurs,  I  withdraw  the 
refusal  of  leave  of  absence  ;  you  may 
thank  your  comrade,  Gounod,  whose 
work  has  earned  you  your  deliver- 
ance." 

The  civic  honors  with  which  I  was 
crowned  in  return  for  this  amnesty 
may  be  imagined ! 

In  due  course  of  time  I  reached  the 
second  class,  and  found  myself  again 
under  the  instruction  of  my  dear 
old  master  of  the  sixth,  Adolphe 
Regnier.  I  had,  then,  among  my 
comrades,  Eugene  Despois,  who  be- 


62 

came  a  brilliant  pupil  of  the  Normal 
School,  and  afterward  a  distinguished 
humanitarian ;  Octave  Ducrois  de 
Sixt ;  and,  finally,  Albert  Delacourtie, 
the  honorable  and  intelligent  attor- 
ney, who  has  remained  one  of  my 
best  and  most  faithful  friends.  We 
four  boys  occupied  between  us  almost 
entirely  the  "bench  of  honor."  At 
Easter  I  was  judged  sufficiently  ad- 
vanced to  take  up  rhetoric,  which  I 
studied  but  three  months;  and  my 
progress  in  other  branches  having 
been  so  satisfactory,  my  mother  re- 
nounced her  favorite  project  of  hav- 
ing me  go  over  the  ground  again.  I 
left  the  lyceum  at  the  summer  vaca- 
tion, being  then  a  little  more  than 
seventeen  years  old. 

But  I  had  not  finished  philosophy, 
and  my  mother  did  not  intend  that 
any  of  my  studies  should  be  incom- 
plete. It  was,  therefore,  arranged  to 
go  on  with  them  at  home,  so  that, 
while  pursuing  my  work  in  composi- 
tion, I  was  also  preparing  for  exami- 


63 

nation  as  bachelor  of  arts,  which 
degree  I  passed  at  the  end  of  the 
year. 

I  have  often  regretted  not  having 
added  that  of  the  baccalaureate  of 
sciences,  which  would  have  familiar- 
ized me  early  with  a  crowd  of  ideas, 
the  importance  of  which  I  appreci- 
ated when  all  too  late,  and  regard- 
ing which  I  have,  unfortunately, 
remained  in  ignorance.  But  time 
was  pressing ;  it  was  necessary  to 
prepare  for  winning  the  prix  de  Rome, 
to  which  I  aspired,  and  which  was 
for  me  a  question  of  life  or  death 
for  my  future.  Therefore,  there  was 
no  time  to  lose. 

Reicha  had  just  died,  and  I  found 
myself  without  a  teacher.  My  mother 
decided  to  take  me  to  Cherubini,  and 
to  ask  for  my  admission  into  one  of 
the  classes  in  composition  at  the 
Conservatory.  I  carried  with  me 
some  of  my  exercises  written  under 
Reicha,  in  order  to  show  Cherubini 


64 

the  degree  of  my  advancement.  This, 
however,  was  not  necessary,  as  he 
took  only  verbal  information  of  my 
progress,  and,  when  he  learned  that  I 
had  been  a  pupil  of  Reicha  (who  had 
also  taught  at  the  Conservatory),  he 
said  to  my  mother : 

"Ah,  well!  he  must  now  begin 
again  and  do  it  all  over  in  another 
way.  I  do  not  like  Reicha's  method  ; 
he  was  a  German.  The  young  man 
must  now  follow  the  Italian  school. 
I  will  put  him  into  the  class  of  coun- 
terpoint and  fugue  under  my  pupil, 
Halevy." 

Now,  the  Italian  school  preferred 
by  Cherubini  was  that  great  one 
handed  down  from  Palestrina,  just 
as,  for  the  Germans,  the  master  par 
excellence  is  Sebastian  Bach.  Far 
from  discouraging  me,  this  decision 
delighted  me. 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  I,  re- 
peatedly, to  my  mother.  "I  shall 
only  be  more  thoroughly  equipped, 
having  learned  from  eaqh  of  these 


65 

two  great  schools  that  which  charac- 
terizes each.  All  is  for  the  best." 

I  went  into  Halevy's  class,  Cheru- 
bini  placing  me  at  the  same  time, 
for  lyrical  composition,  in  the  hands 
of  Berton,  author  of  Montana  et  Stt- 
phanie,  and  of  a  great  number  of 
works  enjoying  a  well-merited  repu- 
tation. He  was  a  man  of  fine  mind, 
agreeable,  delicate  in  feeling,  and  a 
great  admirer  of  Mozart,  the  assidu- 
ous study  of  whose  works  he  recom- 
mended. 

"Read  Mozart,"  repeated  he,  con- 
stantly; "read  the  Marriage  of  Figaro." 

He  was  right ;  this  ought  to  be  the 
breviary  of  musicians.  Mozart  is  to 
Palestrina  and  to  Bach  what  the 
New  Testament  is  to  the  Old,  both 
being  considered  as  parts  of  one  and 
the  same  Bible. 

Berton  having  died  about  two 
months  after  my  entrance  into  his 
class,  Cherubini  placed  me  in  that  of 
Le  Sueur,  the  author  of  Les  Bardes, 
La  Caverne,  and  of  several  masses 

5 


66 

and  oratorios;  a  man  serious,  reserved, 
earnest,  and  devout,  with  an  inspira- 
tion sometimes  biblical;  very  much 
given  to  sacred  subjects ;  tall,  with  a 
face  pale  as  wax,  and  with  the  air  of 
an  old  patriarch.  Le  Sueur  treated 
me  with  paternal  kindness  and  ten- 
derness ;  he  was  affectionate ;  he  had 
a  warm  heart.  His  instructions, 
which,  unfortunately,  lasted  only 
nine  or  ten  months,  were  very  bene- 
ficial, and  I  derived  from  him  ideas, 
the  light  and  elevation  of  which 
insure  him  an  indelible  place  in  my 
memory  and  in  my  grateful  affec- 
tion. 

I  went  over  again,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  HaleVy,  the  whole  course  of 
counterpoint  and  fugue ;  but  in  spite 
of  my  work,  with  which  my  master 
was  well  satisfied,  I  never  obtained  a 
prize  at  the  Conservatory.  My  special 
object  was  the  grand  prix  de  Rome, 
which  I  was  determined  to  carry  off, 
cost  what  it  might. 

I  was  then  going  on  nineteen  years 


67 

of  age,  when  I  competed  for  the  first 
time,  and  won  the  second  prize.  Le 
Sueur  being  dead,  I  became  a  pupil 
of  Paer,  who  had  replaced  the  former 
as  teacher  of  composition.  I  com- 
peted again  the  following  year.  My 
mother  was  filled  with  hope  and  fear 
at  the  same  time,  for  nothing  more 
was  left  me  but  the  grand  prix  or 
failure.  It  was  a  failure !  I  was 
twenty  years  old  —  the  age  for  con- 
scription !  But  my  second  prize  of 
the  preceding  year  gave  me  one  more 
chance,  a  respite  of  a  year,  after 
which  I  could  enter  for  the  third  and 
last  time  into  the  competition.  To 
console  me  for  my  defeat,  my  mother 
took  me  for  a  journey  of  a  month  in 
Switzerland.  She  had  yet,  in  spite  of 
her  fifty-eight  years,  all  the  freshness 
and  vigor  of  a  woman  of  thirty.  For 
me,  also,  who,  outside  of  Paris,  had 
seen  only  Versailles,  Rouen,  and 
Havre,  this  journey  was  a  series  of 
enchantments,  going  from  Geneva 
by  Chamouni  to  the  Oberland,  the 


Righi,  the  lakes,  and  returning  by 
Basel.  We  went  on  two  mules,  set- 
ting out  early  each  morning,  and 
retiring  late  to  rest,  my  mother 
always  being  the  first  one  up,  and  all 
dressed  before  I  was  awake. 

I  returned  to  Paris  full  of  new  zeal 
for  my  work,  and  determined  to  finish 
this  time  with  the  grand  prix  de 
Rome.  The  date  of  this  competi- 
tion, so  impatiently  awaited,  came  at 
last.  I  went  into  the  required  seclu- 
sion, and  carried  off  the  prize !  My 
mother  wept;  with  joy,  at  first,  and 
then  at  the  thought  that  this  triumph 
meant  speedy  separation  —  and  that 
a  separation  of  three  years,  of  which 
two  were  to  be  passed  in  Rome  and 
the  third  in  Germany.  We  had 
never  been  parted,  and  the  fable  of 
"  The  Two  Pigeons "  would  come 
daily  to  her  remembrance. 

The  artists  who  won  the  other 
grand  prizes  in  the  same  year  with 
me  were :  Hubert,  for  painting , 


69 

Gruyere,  for  sculpture ;  Le  Fuel,  for 
architecture;  for  engraving  on  medals, 
Vauthier,  grandson  of  Galle. 

The  official  distribution  of  the  prix 
de  Rome  took  place  near  the  end  of 
October,  at  the  annual  public  session 
of  the  Institute,  during  which  was 
performed  the  cantata  of  the  laureate 
musician.  My  brother,  who  was  an 
architect,  had  made  excellent  prog- 
ress at  the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  as  a 
pupil  of  Huyot ;  but,  not  wishing 
to  leave  our  mother,  and  foresee- 
ing, perhaps,  that  the  grand  prix 
would  take  from  her,  some  day,  the 
younger  of  her  two  sons,  he  renounced 
the  competition  for  Rome,  which,  in 
case  he  had  obtained  it,  would  have 
separated  him  for  five  years  from 
that  mother  whom  he  adored,  and  of 
whom  he  was  the  mainstay  and  sup- 
port. 

But  he  had  received  what  was 
called  the  "departmental  prize," 
awarded  to  pupils  obtaining  the 
greatest  number  of  medals  in  the 


70 

course  of  their  studies  at  the  School 
of  Fine  Arts.  This  prize  was  also 
announced  at  the  same  public  ses- 
sion of  the  Institute,  and  our  mother 
thus  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  her 
two  sons  crowned  on  the  same  day. 

I  have  already  stated  that  my 
brother  was  a  student  at  the  lyceum 
of  Versailles.  It  was  there  that  he 
first  knew  Lefuel,  whose  father,  in- 
deed, was  architect  of  the  palace, 
and  who  was  destined  later  to  make 
illustrious  the  name  he  bore.  He 
found  my  brother  again  as  a  fellow- 
student  in  the  atelier  of  Huyot,  the 
celebrated  architect,  one  of  the  de- 
signers of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  de 
VEtoile;  and  from  that  time  forward 
they  were  bound  together  in  an  in- 
destructible friendship.  Lefuel  was 
nearly  nine  years  older  than  I,  and 
my  mother,  who  loved  him  as  a  son, 
confided  me  to  his  care  in  going  to 
Rome  (it  may  be  imagined  with  how 
many  charges),  and  I  owe  it  to  the 
memory  of  this  most  excellent  friend 


71 

to  say  that  he  acquitted  himself  of 
his  duty  with  the  greatest  fidelity 
and  the  most  watchful  care. 

Before  my  departure,  an  oppor- 
tunity was  offered  me  of  attempting  a 
work,  serious  enough  at  any  age,  and 
especially  so  at  mine.  The  chapel 
master  of  St.  Eustache  —  Dietsch  — 
who  was  then  director  of  chorus  at 
the  Optra,  said  to  me  one  day : 

"  Come,  write  a  mass  before  start- 
ing for  Rome;  I  will  have  it  sung  at 
St.  Eustache." 

A  mass !  of  mine !  at  St.  Eustache ! 
I  thought  I  was  dreaming.  I  had  five 
months  before  me,  and  set  myself 
resolutely  to  the  work.  On  the  day 
fixed,  I  was  ready,  thanks  to  the  as- 
sistance of  my  mother,  who  had 
helped  me  copy  the  orchestral  parts, 
we  not  having  the  means  with  which 
to  pay  a  copyist.  A  mass,  with  grand 
orchestra,  if  you  please !  I  dedicated 
it,  with  as  much  temerity  as  grati- 
tude, to  my  beloved  and  regretted 


72 

master,  Le  Sueur,  and  directed  the 
performance  of  it  myself,  at  St. 
Eustache. 

My  mass  was  certainly  not  a  re- 
markable work ;  it  showed  the  inex- 
perience that  might  be  expected  from 
a  young  artist  as  yet  a  novice  in  the 
handling  of  the  rich  palette  of  the 
orchestra,  the  acquirement  of  which 
demands  such  long  practice.  As  to 
the  value  of  the  musical  ideas,  con- 
sidered by  themselves,  they  were 
conceived  with  correct  feeling,  and 
with  an  instinct  truly  in  harmony 
with  the  sense  of  the  sacred  text; 
but  in  the  particulars  of  arrange- 
ment and  development,  there  was 
much  left  to  be  desired.  Such  as 
it  was,  however,  this  first  attempt 
brought  me  much  -kind  encourage- 
ment, with  one  instance  of  which  I 
was  especially  touched. 

At  the  instant  when  my  mother 
and  I  arrived  at  home,  after  the  pro- 
duction of  the  mass,  I  found  waiting 
for  me  at  the  door  of  our  apart- 


73 

ments  (we  were  then  living  at  No.  8 
rue  de  r  Eperon,  rez-de-chaussee'),  a 
messenger  with  letter  in  hand.  I 
took  it,  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows : 

"  Bravo !  dear  young  man,  whom  I 
knew  as  a  child.  All  honor  to  the  Glo- 
ria, to  the  Credo,  and  especially  to 
the  Sanctus!  It  is  fine,  it  is  truly  relig- 
ious. Bravo!  and  thanks;  you  have 
rendered  me  truly  happy." 

This  was  from  good  M.  Poirson, 
my  old  principal  at  the  Lycte  St. 
Louis,  and  at  that  time  principal  of 
the  Lycte  Charlemagne.  He  had  seen 
the  notice  of  the  production  of  my 
mass  and  hastened,  full  of  interest 
and  anxiety,  to  hear  the  first  efforts 
of  the  young  artist  to  whom  he  had 
said,  seven  years  before : 

"  Go  on,  my  child,  with  your  music." 

I  was  so  much  affected  by  his 
remembrance  that  I  did  not  take 
time  to  enter  the  house  ;  I  made  but 
one  bound  into  the  street,  leaped  into 
a  cab,  and  arrived  at  the  Lyce'e  Charle- 
magne, rue  St.  A  ntoine,  where  I  found 


74 

my  dear  old  principal,  who  opened 
his  arms  and  embraced  me  with  all 
his  heart. 

I  had  then  but  four  days  to  spend 
with  that  mother  from  whom  I  was 
to  be  separated  for  three  years,  and 
who,  through  her  tears,  was  pre- 
paring everything  for  the  day  of  my 
departure.  That  day  approached 
rapidly. 


II. 

ITALY. 

ON  the  5th  of  December,  1834,  Le- 
fuel,  Vauthier,  and  I  left  Paris  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  by  the 
mail-stage  that  started  from  the  rue 
Jean-Jacques  Rousseau.  My  brother 
was  the  only  one  to  witness  our 
departure.  Our  first  stop  was  at 
Lyons.  From  there  we  descended 
the  Rhone  by  Avignon,  Aries,  etc.,  to 
Marseilles.  At  Marseilles  we  took  a 
coach. 

The  coach!  how  many  memories 
are  suggested  by  the  word !  Poor, 
old  vehicle !  —  crushed,  ground  down, 
outstripped  by  the  breathless,  dizzy 
speed  of  the  iron  wheels  of  steam  — 
the  coach  which  permitted  one  to  stop, 
to  look,  and  to  peacefully  admire  the 
places  through  which  —  if,  indeed, 

(75) 


76 

not  under  which — the  roaring  loco- 
motive now  drags  you  like  a  piece 
of  baggage,  and  hurls  you  into  space 
with  the  fury  of  a  meteor. 

The  coach  which  carried  you  little 
by  little,  gradually,  cautiously,  from 
one  scene  to  another,  instead  of  that 
howitzer  on  rails  that  takes  you, 
sleeping  under  the  sky  of  Paris,  and 
throws  you,  waking,  roughly,  like  a 
piece  of  merchandise,  ^  I'Anglaise, 
under  that  of  the  Orient,  without 
gradual  preparatory  transition  of 
mind  or  of  temperature.  Many  to- 
gether, closely  packed,  and  in  quick 
time,  like  fish  sent  by  express,  so  as 
to  be  fresh  on  arrival ! 

If  progress,  that  pitiless  conqueror, 
would,  at  least,  leave  life  in  the  van- 
quished !  But  no  —  the  coach  exists 
no  longer.  I  bless  it  for  having  been; 
it  permitted  me  to  enjoy  in  detail  the 
admirable  route  from  La  Corniche, 
which  prepares  one  so  well  for  the 
climate  and  the  picturesque  beauties 
of  Italy  —  Monaco,  Mentone,  Sestri, 


77 

Genoa,  Spezzia,  Trasitneno,  Tuscany, 
and  Pisa,  Lucca,  Siena,  Perugia,  Flor- 
ence —  alternating  and  progressive 
instruction  in  nature,  which  explains 
the  masters,  who,  in  their  turn,  teach 
one  to  observe  nature.  All  this  we 
dwelt  upon  and  enjoyed  at  our  leisure 
for  nearly  two  months,  and  on  the  27th 
of  January,  1840,  entered  that  Rome 
which  was  to  be  our  dwelling  place, 
our  instructor,  and  our  initiator  into 
the  grand  and  severe  beauties  of 
nature  and  of  art. 

The  director  of  the  Academy  of 
France,  at  Rome,  then,  was  Monsieur 
Ingres,  whom  my  father  had  known 
when  quite  young.  Upon  our  arrival 
we  called  upon  the  director,  as  was 
customary,  to  be  personally  presented 
to  him.  He  had  scarcely  seen  me 
when  he  exclaimed : 

"  You  are  Gounod  !  Dieu  !  How 
much  you  resemble  your  father!  " 

And  he  pronounced  upon  my 
father's  talent  as  a  draughtsman,  his 
nature,  and  the  charm  of  his  mind 


78 

and  conversation,  a  eulogy  that  I 
was  proud  to  hear  from  the  lips 
of  so  eminent  an  artist,  this  being 
for  me  the  most  agreeable  reception 
possible. 

Each  of  us  having  been  installed 
in  his  allotted  lodging  —  a  lodging 
consisting  of  one  large  room,  serving 
for  both  working  and  sleeping  quar- 
ters— my  first  thought  was  of  the  long 
exile  that  was  to  separate  me  from 
my  mother.  I  wondered  if  my  work 
as  a  student  would  suffice  to  help  me 
to  endure  patiently  a  separation  that 
my  stay  in  Rome  and  in  Germany 
would  prolong  to  three  years.  From 
my  window  I  perceived  in  the  dis- 
tance the  dome  of  St.  Peters,  and 
involuntarily  yielded  myself  to  the 
melancholy  induced  by  my  first 
experience  in  solitude,  although 
a  building  could  hardly  be  called 
a  solitude  in  which  were  lodged 
twenty-eight  students,  who  gathered 
twice  a  day,  at  least,  around  a  com- 
mon table  —  in  that  famous  dining- 


79 

room  where  hung  the  portraits  of 
all  who  had  studied  there  since  the 
foundation  of  the  Academy  —  and 
with  which  comrades  I  was  of  a  dis- 
position to  soon  make  acquaintance 
and  be  on  good  terms. 

I  must  confess  it!  One  of  the 
reasons  that  contributed  the  most  to 
my  loneliness  was,  undoubtedly,  the 
impression  made  upon  me  by  my 
arrival  in  Rome.  It  was  a  complete 
disappointment.  Instead  of  the  city 
that  I  had  imagined  —  majestic  in 
character,  striking  in  appearance, 
magnificent,  full  of  temples,  ancient 
monuments,  and  picturesque  ruins  — 
I  found  myself  in  a  veritable  provin- 
cial city,  ordinary,  colorless,  and  dirty 
almost  everywhere.  My  illusions 
were  completely  destroyed,  and  it 
would  have  taken  but  little  to  induce 
me  to  give  up  my  studies,  pack  my 
trunk,  and  leave  post  haste  for  Paris, 
there  to  find  again  all  that  I  loved. 

Of  course,  Rome  contained  all  that 
of  which  I  had  dreamed,  but  not  in  a 


so 

way  to  strike  one  at  first  sight;  it 
must  be  sought  for;  one  must  look 
here  and  there,  and  question,  little  by 
little,  the  sleeping  grandeur  of  the 
glorious  past,  bringing  it  to  life  again 
by  familiar  acquaintance  with  those 
silent  ruins — the  bones  of  Roman 
antiquity. 

I  was  too  young  then,  not  alone  in 
years,  but  also  in  development  of 
mind ;  I  was  too  much  of  a  child  to 
seize  and  comprehend  at  first  sight 
the  profound  meaning  of  that  grave, 
austere  city,  which  appeared  to  me 
so  cold,  arid,  sad,  and  taciturn,  which 
speaks  in  a  tone  so  low  as  to  be  un- 
derstood only  by  ears  trained  by  si- 
lence and  meditation.  Rome  can  say 
what  the  Holy  Scriptures  represent 
God  as  saying  with  regard  to  the 
soul :  "I  will  allure  her,  and  bring 
her  into  the  wilderness,  and  speak 
comfortably  unto  her." 

Rome  is,  in  herself,  so  many  things, 
and  these  things  are  wrapped  in  a 
calm  so  profound,  in  a  majesty  so 


81 

tranquil  and  serene,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  suspect,  at  first,  the  prodi- 
gious amount  and  inexhaustible  rich- 
ness of  what  she  offers.  Her  past  as 
well  as  her  present,  her  present  as 
well  as  her  future,  make  of  her  the 
capital,  not  of  a  country,  but  of 
humanity.  Whoever  has  lived  there 
long  knows  this  very  well;  and  to 
whatever  nation  one  may  belong, 
whatever  may  be  one's  native  tongue, 
Rome  speaks  a  language  so  universal 
that  none  can  leave  it  without  feel- 
ing as  if  departing  from  a  native 
land.  Little  by  little  my  melancholy 
gave  place  to  quite  another  senti- 
ment. I  familiarized  myself  with 
my  surroundings,  and  emerged  from 
the  sort  of  winding-sheet  in  which  I 
had  been  enveloped. 

In  the  meantime  I  had  not  been 
altogether  idle.  My  favorite  employ- 
ment was  the  reading  of  Goethe's 
Faust  (in  French,  of  course,  as  I  did 
not  know  a  word  of  German).  I  read, 
besides,  and  with  great  pleasure,  the 

6 


82 

poems  of  Latnartine.  Before  think- 
ing of  my  first  composition  to  be 
sent  home  from  Rome,  and  for  which 
I  had  still  plenty  of  time,  I  busied 
myself  in  writing-  several  melodies, 
including  Le  Vallon  and  Le  Soir,  the 
music  of  which  was  adapted  ten 
years  later  to  the  prize  competition 
scene  in  the  first  act  of  my  opera, 
Sapho,  set  to  the  beautiful  lines  of 
my  friend  and  collaborator,  Emile 
Augier  —  "  Hfro,  sur  la  tour  solitaire 
.  .  .  . "  I  wrote  these  melodies 
within  a  short  time  of  each  other, 
almost  immediately  after  my  arrival 
at  the  Villa  Medici. 

Six  weeks  passed  away;  my  eyes 
became  accustomed  to  that  city  whose 
silence  had  impressed  me  as  a  desert. 
This  silence  even  began  to  charm 
me,  to  be  a  solace,  and  I  found 
a  particular  pleasure  in  frequenting 
the  ruins  of  the  Forum,  the  Palatine 
Hill,  and  the  Colosseum,  those  re- 
mains of  past  grandeur  and  power 
over  which  has  been  extended  for 


83 

centuries  the  august  and  pacific 
shepherd's  crook  of  the  Pastor  of 
Peoples  and  the  Ruler  of  Nations. 
I  had  formed  the  acquaintanceship 
and  became  the  friend  of  an  excellent 
family,  the  Desgoffes,  who  were  en- 
joying the  hospitality  of  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Ingres.  Alexander  Des- 
goffe  was  not  one  of  our  fellow-stu- 
dents, but  a  pupil  of  Monsieur  Ingres, 
and  a  landscape  painter  of  a  severe 
and  noble  style.  He  lived  at  the 
Academy  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
a  charming  child  of  nine  years,  who 
afterward  became  Madame  Paul  Flan- 
drin,  a  woman  as  admirable  in  the 
capacity  of  wife  and  mother  as  she 
was  perfect  in  that  of  a  daughter. 
Desgoffe  was  possessed  of  a  rare 
nature  ;  a  heart  deep,  worthy,  de- 
voted, modest  ;  clear  and  simple 
as  a  child;  faithful  and  generous. 
It  was,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  a 
great  delight  to  my  mother  to  learn 
that  I  was  with  kind  and  excellent 
people,  who  were  really  fond  of  me, 


84 

whose  society  afforded  some  mitiga- 
tion of  my  loneliness,  and  upon  whom 
I  could  depend  in  case  of  need  for 
loving  and  devoted  care. 

Our  Sunday  evenings  were  usually 
'passed  in  the  large  drawing-room  of 
the  director,  to  whose  apartments 
the  students  were  freely  admitted  on 
that  day.  We  always  had  music. 
Monsieur  Ingres  favored  me  with  his 
special  friendship.  He  was  a  great 
lover  of  music,  being  passionately 
fond  of  Haydn,  Mozart,  Beethoven, 
and  above  all,  of  Gluck,  who,  by  the 
nobility  and  pathos  of  his  style, 
seemed  to  him  a  Greek,  a  descendant 
of  ^schylus,  of  Sophocles,  and  Euri- 
pides. Monsieur  Ingres  played  the 
violin,  not  as  a  good  performer,  much 
less  a  virtuoso,  but  during  his  youth 
he  had  played  that  instrument  in  the 
orchestra  of  his  native  city,  Montau- 
ban,  where  he  assisted  in  the  per- 
formance of  Gluck's  operas.  I  had, 
also  read  and  studied  the  works  of 


CQtounofr*  85 

Gluck.  As  to  Mozart's  Don  Juan,  I 
knew  it  by  heart,  and,  although  I  was 
not  a  good  pianist,  I  managed  to 
gratify  M.  Ingres  by  playing  for  him 
the  score  he  adored.  I  knew  equally 
well  the  symphonies  of  Beethoven, 
for  which  he  had  a  great  admiration. 
We  two  often  passed  a  great  part  of 
the  night  entertaining  ourselves  in 
this  way  in  the  companionship  of  the 
great  masters,  and  in  a  short  time  I 
was  completely  established  in  the 
good  graces  of  M.  Ingres. 

Whoever  has  not  known  that  gen- 
tleman can  have  but  an  incorrect  and 
false  idea  of  him.  I  observed  him 
very  closely,  familiarly,  frequently, 
and  for  a  long  time  ;  and  I  can  affirm 
that  he  was  by  nature  simple  and 
upright,  open,  candid,  and  impulsive, 
with  an  enthusiasm' that  sometimes 
amounted  to  eloquence.  He  had  the 
tenderness  of  a  child  and  the  indig- 
nation of  an  apostle  ;  he  had  a  nazvett, 
a  touching  sensibility,  and  a  fresh- 
ness of  emotion  not  met  with  among 


86 

"poseurs"  with  whom  some  people 
have  been  pleased  to  number  him. 

Sincerely  humble  and  modest  in 
the  presence  of  the  masters,  but  dig- 
nified and  proud  before  the  self-suf- 
ficience  and  arrogance  of  ignorance 
and  pretension,  fatherly  toward  all 
the  students,  whom  he  considered  as 
his  children,  and  whom  he  was  care- 
ful to  treat  as  such  before  the  visitors 
that  were  received  at  the  Academy, 
whoever  they  might  be,  such  was  the 
great  and  noble  artist  whose  valuable 
instructions  I  had  the  happiness  to 
receive.  I  loved  him  dearly,  and  I 
shall  never  forget  that  he  expressed 
before  me  some  of  those  luminous 
sayings  that  suffice  to  light  up  the 
life  of  any  artist  who  has  the  good 
fortune  to  comprehend  them. 

Everyone  knows  the  famous  say- 
ing of  M.  Ingres :  "  Drawing  is  the 
probity  of  art."  He  said  in  my  pres- 
ence another  thing  which  is  a  whole 
synthesis  in  itself:  "There  is  no 
grace  without  force."  It  is  the  truth 


87 

that  grace  and  force  are  complement- 
ary to  each  other  in  the  total  of 
beauty,  force  preserving  grace  from 
becoming  puerile,  and  grace  prevent- 
ing force  from  becoming  brutal.  It 
is  the  perfect  harmony  of  these  two 
elements  that  marks  the  height  of 
art  and  which  constitutes  genius. 

It  has  been  said,  and  often  mechan- 
ically repeated,  that  M.  Ingres  was 
despotic,  intolerant,  exclusive ;  but 
he  was  nothing  of  all  that.  If  he 
asserted  himself  strongly,  it  was 
because  he  had  strong  belief,  and 
nothing  in  the  world  gives  more 
authority  than  that.  I  have  never 
seen  anyone  admire  more  things 
than  he,  simply  because  he  could  dis- 
cern better  than  anyone  else  in 
what  respect  and  why  a  thing  was 
admirable.  But  he  was  prudent ;  he 
knew  to  what  extent  the  impulses  of 
the  young  lead  them,  without  dis- 
cernment and  without  method,  to  be 
enamored  of,  and  infatuated  with, 
certain  personal  traits  of  such  or  such 


88 

a  master.  He  knew,  also,  that  these 
traits,  which  are  the  distinctive,  per- 
sonal characteristics  of  each  master, 
their  individual  physiognomy  by 
which  they  are  recognized  as  we 
recognize  each  other,  are  just  the 
very  incommunicable  peculiarities  of 
their  nature  ;  and  that,  consequently, 
it  is,  in  the  first  place,  to  say  the 
least,  a  plagiarism  to  try  to  imitate 
them;  and,  furthermore,  that  this 
imitation  will  result  fatally  in  an 
exaggeration  of  those  qualities,  which 
the  imitator  will  turn  into  just  as 
many  defects.  This  was  the  convic- 
tion of  M.  Ingres,  for  which  he  was 
unjustly  accused  of  exclusiveness  and 
intolerance. 

The  following  anecdote  will  show 
how  honest  he  was  in  correcting 
a  wrongly  formed  first  impression, 
and  how  little  obstinate  in  his  repug- 
nances. I  had  just  let  him  hear  for 
the  first  time  the  admirable  scene  of 
Charon  and  the  Shades,  in  the  opera 
of  Alceste,  not  of  Gluck,  but  of  Lully. 


89 

This  first  hearing  left  upon  him  an 
impression  of  stiffness,  dryness,  and 
barbarous  harshness  so  painful  that 
he  exclaimed : 

"  That  is  frightful !  it  is  hideous ! 
it  is  not  music,  it  is  iron ! " 

I  was  very  careful  not  to  oppose 
myself,  young  as  I  was,  to  the  im- 
petuosity of  one  for  whom  I  had  the 
greatest  respect ;  I  waited  to  let  the 
storm  pass  by.  Some  time  afterward 
he  referred  to  the  impression  left 
upon  him  by  this  music  —  an  impres- 
sion already  somewhat  softened,  as  it 
seemed  to  me  —  and  said : 

"  Come,  let  us  have  that  scene  from 
Lully  again  —  Charon  and  the  Shades 
—  I  should  like  to  hear  it  once  more." 

I  sang  it  again  for  him ;  and  this 
time,  having  become  familiar,  doubt- 
less, with  the  simple  and  severe  style 
of  that  remarkable  portrayal,  he  was 
struck  with  the  irony  and  cunning  in 
the  language  of  Charon,  and  with  the 
touching  lament  of  those  wandering 
Shades  to  whom  he  refused  passage  ' 


90 

in  his  boat  because  they  had  nothing 
with  which  to  pay  him.  Little  by  lit- 
tle M.  Ingres  grew  so  much  attached 
to  this  scene  that  it  became  one  of 
his  favorite  selections,  a  repetition  of 
which  he  frequently  requested. 

But  his  ruling  passion  was  for 
Mozart's  Don  Juan,  with  which  we 
sometimes  remained  together  until 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  which 
point  Madame  Ingres,  ready  to<  drop 
with  weariness  and  fatigue,  was  ob- 
liged to  close  the  piano  in  order  to 
separate  us  and  make  us  go,  each  one 
his  own  way,  to  bed. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  matter  of 
music,  M.  Ingres  preferred  the  Ger- 
man school,  and  did  not  care  much  to 
talk  about  Rossini ;  but  he  regarded 
the  Barber  of  Seville  as  a  master- 
piece; he  had,  also,  the  greatest 
admiration  for  another  Italian  master 
—  Cherubini  —  of  whom  he  left  a  fine 
portrait,  and  whom  Beethoven  consid- 
ered the  greatest  master  of  his  time, 
which  is  not  slight  praise,  bestowed 


91 

by  such  a  man.  Moreover,  we  all 
have  our  preferences,  and  why  should 
M.  Ingres  not  have  his?  To  prefer 
is  not  to  condemn  what  one  does  not 
prefer. 

A  particular  circumstance  favored 
and  increased  my  intimacy  with  M. 
Ingres.  I  was  very  fond  of  drawing, 
and  often  carried  a  sketch-book  in 
my  excursions  around  Rome.  One 
day,  returning  from  one  of  my  expe- 
ditions, I  found  myself  at  the  door 
of  the  Academy,  face  to  face  with 
him,  also  returning  at  that  moment. 
He  noticed  the  sketch-book  under 
my  arm,  and  said,  fixing  upon  me 
that  searching  and  luminous  look 
peculiar  to  him : 

"  What  have  you  there,  under  your 
arm?" 

I  replied,  somewhat  confused : 

"But  —  M.  Ingres  —  it  is  a  sketch- 
book." 

"  A  sketch-book  !  for  what  purpose? 
Do  you  draw?" 


92 

"  Oh,  no — M.  Ingres — that  is  to  say 
—  yes  —  I  draw  a  little,  but  so  very 
little.' 

"Indeed  !  ah,  come,  let  me  see." 

And  opening  my  book  his  eyes  fell 
upon  a  small  figure  of  St.  Catharine 
that  I  had  copied  that  very  day  from 
a  fresco  attributed  to  Masaccio,  in  the 
old  basilica  of  St.  Clement,  not  far 
from  the  Colosseum. 

"  Did  you  do  this  ?"  asked  M.  Ingres. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"All  alone?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Ah!  but  do  you  know  that  you 
draw  like  your  father  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  M.  Ingres." 

Then  looking  at  me  seriously,  he 
said: 

"You  must  make  me  some  tracings." 

Make  tracings  for  M.  Ingres !  Per- 
haps to  make  them  near  him,  to  be 
illuminated  by  his  rays,  to  warm  my- 
self by  his  enthusiasm  !  I  was  over- 
come with  honor  and  delight. 

Thus  it  was  in  fact  that,  seated  by 


93 

his  side  and  working  at  evening  by 
his  lamp,  I  gave  myself  tip  to  this 
fascinating  occupation,  so  delightful 
and  at  the  same  time  so  instructive, 
both  on  account  of  the  study  of  the 
chefs-d'osuvres  that  passed  under  the 
careful  point  of  my  pencil  and  by  all 
that  I  gathered  from  the  conversa- 
tion of  M.  Ingres.  I  made  nearly  a 
hundred  sketches  for  him  after  en- 
gravings of  primitive  subjects  that 
had  the  honor  of  being  in  his  port- 
folio, and  of  which  several  were  not 
less  than  forty  centimetres  in  height. 

One  day  he  said  to  me  : 

"If  you  wish  it,  I  will  have  you 
come  back  to  Rome  with  the  grand 
prix  for  painting." 

"Oh  !  M.  Ingres, "replied  I,  "change 
my  career,  and  begin  another  ?  And 
then  leave  my  mother  again?  Oh! 
no,  no !" 

However,  as  I  was  in  Rome  to 
devote  myself  to  music  rather  than 
to  painting,  it  was  necessary  to  think 


94 

seriously  of  improving  occasions  for 
hearing  music.  These  opportunities 
were  not,  indeed,  very  frequent,  but, 
above  all,  they  ought  to  have  been 
beneficial  and  instructive.  And  to 
begin  with,  in  the  matter  of  re- 
ligious music,  there  was  hardly  more 
than  a  single  place  where  one  could 
go  satisfactorily  and  profitably,  and 
that  place  was  the  Sistine  Chapel  at 
the  Vatican.  What  went  on  in  the 
other  churches  was  enough  to  make 
one  shudder !  Outside  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel,  and  the  one  called  the  Chapel 
of  the  Canons  in  St.  Peters,  the 
music  was  not  even  good-for-nothing ; 
it  was  execrable. 

One  can  not  imagine  a  more  un- 
suitable collection  of  things  brought 
out  in  the  other  churches,  in  the 
name  of  the  honor  of  heaven.  All 
the  gaudy  tinsel  of  secular  music 
appeared  on  the  stage  of  these  relig- 
ious masquerades.  One  hearing  of 
each  was  sufficient,  and  after  my  first 
experience  I  was  not  found  there 
again. 


95 

I  went,  usually,  on  Sunday  to  hear 
High  Mass  at  the  Sistine  Chapel,  fre- 
quently accompanied  by  my  friend, 
Hebert.  But  the  Sistine  —  to  speak 
of  it  as  it  deserves,  too  much  can  not 
be  said  of  the  authors  of  both  what 
one  sees  and  hears  there  —  or  rather, 
of  what  was  once  heard  there  in 
former  days ;  for,  alas !  although  one 
may  still  see  the  sublime  work  of 
Michael  Angelo  —  destructible  and 
already  very  much  changed  —  it 
seems  that  the  music  of  the  divine 
Palestrina  no  longer  resounds  under 
those  vaults  that  the  political  cap- 
tivity of  the  sovereign  pontiff  has 
rendered  mute,  and  which  mourn 
eloquently  in  emptiness  the  absence 
of  their  holy  guest. 

I  went,  therefore,  as  often  as  pos- 
sible to  the  Sistine  Chapel.  The 
music  there  —  severe,  ascetic,  hor- 
izontal, and  calm  as  the  line  of  the 
ocean,  monotonous  by  reason  of  se- 
renity, ante-sensuous,  and,  neverthe- 
less, possessing  an  intensity  of  con- 


96 

templation  that  sometimes  amounts 
to  ecstasy — produced  at  first  a  strange, 
almost  unpleasant,  effect  upon  me. 
Whether  it  was  the  character  of  the 
composition  itself,  entirely  new  to 
me,  or  the  especial  sonority  of  those 
particular  voices,  heard  for  the  first 
time,  or,  indeed,  that  attack,  firm  to 
harshness,  that  forcible  hammering 
that  gives  such  strong  relief  to  the 
various  entrances  of  the  voices  into 
a  web  so  full  and  close,  I  can  not 
say,  but,  at  any  rate,  this  impression, 
however  strange  it  might  have  been, 
did  not  displease  me.  I  went  the 
second  time,  and  still  again,  and 
finished  by  not  being  able  to  do 
without  it. 

There  are  works  that  must  be  seen 
or  heard  in  the  places  for  which  they 
were  created.  The  Sistine  Chapel 
is  one  of  these  exceptional  places, 
unique  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
The  colossal  genius  who  decorated 
its  vaulted  ceiling  and  the  wall  of 
the  altar  with  his  matchless  concep- 


97 

tions  of  the  story  of  Genesis  and  of 
the  Last  Judgment,  the  painter  of 
prophets,  with  whom  he  seemed  to 
be  on  an  equality,  will,  doubtless, 
never  have  his  equal,  no  more  than 
Homer  or  Phidias.  Men  of  this 
stamp  and  stature  are  not  seen  twice 
upon  the  earth;  they  are  syntheses, 
they  embrace  a  whole  world,  they 
exhaust  it,  they  complete  it,  and 
what  they  have  said  no  one  can 
repeat  after  them.  The  music  of 
Palestrina  seems  to  be  a  translation 
in  song  of  the  vast  poem  of  Michael 
Angelo,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  these  two  masters  explain  and 
illustrate  each  other  in  the  same 
light,  the  spectator  developing  the 
listener,  and  reciprocally,  so  that, 
finally,  one  is  tempted  to  ask  if  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel — painting  and  music  —  is 
not  the  product  of  one  and  the  same 
inspiration.  Music  and  painting  are ; 
there  found  in  a  union  so  perfect! 
and  sublime  that  it  seems  as  if  the' 
whole  were  the  twofold  expression 

7 


98 

of  one  and  the  same  thought,  the 
double  voice  of  one  and  the  same 
hymn.  It  might  be  said  that  what 
one  hears  is  the  echo  of  what  one  sees. 
There  are,  in  fact,  between  the 
works  of  Michael  Angelo  and  of 
Palestrina  such  analogies,  such  a 
similarity  of  ideas,  that  it  is  very 
difficult  not  to  conclude  that  these 
two  privileged  beings  were  possessed 
of  the  same  combination  of  qualities, 
and  I  was  about  to  say,  of  virtues. 
In  both  the  same  simplicity,  the 
same  modesty  in  the  employment 
of  means,  the  same  indifference  to 
effect,the  same  disdain  of  seductive  at- 
tractions. One  feels  that  the  material 
agent,  the  hand,  counts  for  nothing, 
and  that  the  soul  alone,  unalterably 
fixed  upon  a  higher  world,  strives 
only  to  express  in  an  humble  and 
subordinate  form  the  sublimity  of  its 
contemplations.  There  is  nothing, 
even  to  the  general,  uniform  tone  in 
which  this  painting  and  this  music 
are  enveloped,  which  does  not  seem 


99 

created  with  a  sort  of  voluntary 
renouncement  of  all  colors.  The  art 
of  these  two  men  is,  so  to  speak,  a 
sacrament,  where  the  visible  sign  is 
no  more  than  a  veil  thrown  over  the 
divine  and  living  reality.  Thus, 
neither  one  nor  the  other  of  these 
two  grand  masters  fascinates  at  first. 
In  everything  else  it  is  the  exterior 
that  attracts;  but  here,  not  so;  one 
must  penetrate  beyond  the  visible  and 
the  sensual. 

The  hearing  of  a  work  of  Pales- 
trina  produces  something  analogous 
to  the  reading  of  one  of  the  grand 
pages  of  Bossuet.  Nothing  is  noticed 
as  you  go  along,  but  at  the  end  of  the 
road  you  find  yourself  carried  to 
prodigious  heights ;  the  language, 
docile  and  faithful  servant  of  the 
thought,  has  not  turned  you  from 
your  course  nor  stopped  you  in  its 
own  interest;  and  you  arrive  at  the 
summit  without  rude  shock,  without 
turning  from  the  way,  and  without 
accident,  conducted  by  a  mysterious 


ioo 

guide  who  has  concealed  from  you 
both  himself  and  his  methods.  It  is 
this  absence  of  visible  means,  of 
worldly  artifices,  of  vain  coquetry, 
that  renders  the  highest  works  abso- 
lutely inimitable.  To  attain  to  the 
same  degree  of  perfection  requires 
the  same  spirit  by  which  they  were 
conceived,  and  the  same  raptures  by 
which  they  were  dictated. 

As  to  the  immense,  gigantic  work 
of  Michael  Angelo,  what  can  I  say? 
What  he  has  spread  out,  lavished, 
heaped  up  in  genius — not  only  as  a 
painter,  but  as  a  poet — upon  the  walls 
of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  is  prodigious. 
What  a  powerful  assemblage  of  facts 
and  of  personages  that  one  compris- 
ing and  symbolizing  the  principal 
history,  the  essential  history,  of  our 
race !  What  a  conception  that  double 
line  of  prophets  and  sibyls,  whose 
far-seeing  vision  pierces  intuitively 
the  veil  of  the  future  and  carries 
across  the  ages  the  Spirit  before 
whom  all  things  are  revealed ! 


101 

What  a  book  is  that  vaulted  ceiling 
showing  the  first  history  of  man,  as- 
sociated in  idea,  through  the  colossal 
figure  of  the  prophet  Jonah  escaped 
from  the  bowels  of  the  whale,  with 
the  triumph  of  the  other  Jonah  deliv- 
ered by  his  own  power  from  the 
shadows  of  the  tomb,  and  conqueror 
over  death !  What  a  radiant  and  sub- 
lime hosanna  that  legion  of  angels 
turning  and  winding  in  a  transport 
of  enthusiasm,  so  to  speak,  around 
the  sacred  instruments  of  the  Pas- 
sion, which  they  are  carrying  through 
the  luminous  space  to  the  heights  of 
celestial  glory,  whilst  in  the  lower 
abysses  of  the  picture  the  figures 
of  the  doomed  stand  forth,  mourn- 
ful and  despairing,  in  the  last  livid 
lights  of  a  day  that  seems  to  say 
farewell  to  them  forever! 

And  upon  the  vaulted  ceiling  it- 
self, what  an  eloquent  and  pathetic 
representation  of  the  first  hours  of 
our  first  parents !  What  a  revelation 
that  imposing  gesture  of  the  creative 


102 

act  which  endows  the  still  inanimate 
statue  of  the  first  man  with  the  "  liv- 
ing soul,"  which  places  him  in  con- 
scious relationship  with  the  author  of 
his  being !  What  spiritual  power  is 
suggested  by  that  empty  space,  so 
narrow  and  yet  so  significant,  left  by 
the  painter  between  the  creating 
finger  and  the  creature,  as  if  he  meant 
to  say  that  the  divine  will  knows 
neither  distance  nor  obstacle  in  pass- 
ing over  to  and  reaching  its  object, 
and  that  for  God  to  will  and  to 
create  are  but  one  and  the  same 
operation ;  or,  as  expressed  in  the 
language  of  theology,  an  act  of  sim- 
ple volition. 

What  grace  in  that  submissive 
attitude  of  the  first  woman,  when, 
evolved  from  the  depths  of  Adam's 
slumber,  she  finds  herself  in  the 
presence  of  her  Creator  and  her 
Father!  How  wonderful  that  im- 
pulse of  filial  feeling  and  expansive 
gratitude  with  which  she  bows  her- 
self beneath  the  hand  that  receives 


103 

and  blesses  her  with  calm  and  sov- 
ereign tenderness ! 

But  if  one  were  to  stop  at  each  step, 
no  more  could  be  done  than  to  merely 
skim  over  the  surface  of  this  wonder- 
ful poem,  the  extent  of  which  is  con- 
fusing to  the  mind.  It  can  almost  be 
said  of  this  most  remarkable  embodi- 
ment of  pictures  from  the  Bible,  that 
it  is  the  Bible  of  painting.  Ah !  if  the 
young  could  but  understand  what 
there  is  of  education  for  their  intelli- 
gence and  of  spiritual  nourishment 
for  future  years  in  this  sanctuary  of 
the  Sistine  Chapel,  they  would  spend 
entire  days  there,  and  neither  the 
calls  of  self-interest  nor  the  desire 
for  fame  could  take  hold  of  charac- 
ters molded  in  so  high  a  school  of 
fervor  and  meditation. 

Besides  profiting  by  this  grand 
tradition  of  sacred  music  maintained 
in  the  services  of  the  pontifical  chapel, 
I  was  also  expected,  as  a  student,  to 
make  a  study  of  dramatic  music.  The 


104 

repertoire  of  the  theater  in  Rome,  at 
this  time,  was  almost  entirely  made 
up  of  the  operas  of  Bellini,  Donizetti, 
and  Mercadante,  all  of  them  works 
which,  in  spite  of  their  individual 
characteristics  and  the  occasional 
personal  inspiration  of  their  authors, 
were,  by  the  ensemble  of  means  em- 
ployed, by  their  conventional  style, 
and  by  certain  forms,  degenerated 
into  formulas,  so  many  plants  trained 
around  the  robust  Rossinian  trunk, 
of  which  they  had  neither  the  vitality 
nor  the  majesty,  and  which  seemed 
to  disappear  under  the  momentary 
brilliancy  of  their  ephemeral  foliage. 
There  was,  besides,  no  musical  profit 
to  be  obtained  from  these  representa- 
tions, which,  in  point  of  execution, 
were  much  inferior  to  those  at  the 
Theatre  des  Italiens  in  Paris,  where 
the  same  works  were  interpreted  by 
the  best  of  contemporary  artists. 

The  stage-mounting  itself  was 
sometimes  even  grotesque.  I  remem- 
ber being  once  at  the  Apollo  Theater 


105 

in  Rome  during  a  representation  of 
Norma,  in  which  the  Roman  soldiers 
wore  the  short  coat  and  helmet  of  a 
fireman,  and  butter-colored  nankeen 
trousers,  with  cherry-red  bands!  It 
was  positively  comical,  and  one  might 
have  believed  himself  at  a  Punch  and 
Judy  show. 

I  went,  therefore,  but  rarely  to  the 
theater,  finding  it  more  profitable  to 
study  at  home  the  scores  of  my  be- 
loved favorite  masters,  Gluck's  Iphi- 
genia,  Lully's  Alceste,  Mozart's  Don 
Juan,  and  Rossini's  William  Tell. 

Besides  the  hours  of  companion- 
ship passed  with  M.  Ingres  during 
that  famous  time  of  the  tracings,  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  be  allowed 
to  see  him  at  work  in  his  studio,  and  it 
may  be  believed  that  I  took  good  care 
to  profit  by  such  a  favor.  While  he 
painted,  I  read  to  him,  and,  as  one 
may  well  suppose,  I  interrupted  my- 
self more  than  once  to  watch  him 
paint.  It  was  thus  that  I  saw  him 


106 

correct  and  finish  his  exquisite  pic- 
ture, La  Stratonice,  since  become  the 
property  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
and  his  Vierge  &  VHostie,  destined 
for  the  gallery  of  Count  Demidoff. 
There  is  an  interesting  circumstance 
connected  with  the  history  of  this 
last  painting,  to  which  I  was  witness. 
In  the  original  composition  the 
foreground  was  not  occupied  with  the 
ciborium  surmounted  by  the  Sacred 
Host,  but  by  an  admirable  figure  of 
the  infant  Jesus  lying  asleep,  his 
head  reposing  upon  a  cushion,  one 
tassel  of  which  he  was  holding  in  his 
little  hand,  and  with  which  he  seemed 
to  be  still 'playing.  There  was  some- 
thing exquisite  about  it — so  it  seemed 
to  me,  at  least — in  the  grace  of  design, 
the  beauty  of  the  painting,  and  the 
childish  abandon  of  the  position  of 
the  charming  little  body,  so  radiant 
and  dimpled.  M.  Ingres  himself 
seemed  well  satisfied,  and  when  I 
left  him  as  the  fading  light  obliged 
him  to  suspend  work,  he  was  de- 


107 

lighted  with  the  result  of  his  day's 
labor. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  I 
ascended  again  to  his  studio.  No 
more  infant  Jesus !  The  figure  had 
disappeared,  scraped  off  entirely  with 
a  palette  knife,  not  a  trace  of  it 
remaining. 

"Ah !  M.  Ingres!"  cried  I,  in  con- 
sternation. 

And  he,  with  a  triumphant,  deter- 
mined air,  replied : 

"  Mon  Dieu,  yes ! "  And  then  again, 
with  stronger  emphasis,  "  Yes !  " 

The  splendor  of  the  divine  symbol 
had  just  appeared  to  him  superior  to 
the  radiant  human  reality,  and,  there- 
fore, more  worthy  of  the  homage 
of  the  Virgin  adoring  her  Son.  He 
did  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  a  work  of 
art  to  a  truth.  It  is  by  such  noble 
preferences,  by  such  disinterested 
severity,  that  we  recognize  the  men 
whose  privilege  and  legitimate  re- 
ward it  is  to  enjoy  that  indisputable 
authority  which  classes  them  among 


108 

the    guides  and    teachers    of    other 
men. 

The  company  of  students  at  the 
Academy  of  France  at  Rome,  in  my 
time,  counted  among  its  members 
many  young  artists,  of  whom  sev- 
eral have  since  become  celebrated : 
Lefuel,  Hebert,  Ballu  the  architect 
—  all  three  to-day  members  of  the 
Institute. 

And  others  who  either  distin- 
guished themselves  or  were  removed 
by  premature  death,  with  their  coun- 
try's hopes  full  upon  them:  Papity, 
the  painter ;  Octave  Blanchard,  But- 
tura,  Lebouy,  Brisset,  Pils,  the  sculp- 
tors Diebolt  and  Godde;  the  musi- 
cians Georges  Bousquet,  Aime  Mail- 
lart  —  all  were  offshoots  of  that 
school  so  much  decried,  which,  after 
Hippolyte  Flandrin  and  Ambroise 
Thomas,  produced  Cabanel,  Victor 
Masse,  Guillaume,  Cavelier,  Georges 
Bizet,  Baudry,  Massenet,  and  many 
other  eminent  artists  whose  names 


109 

should    be    added   to     this    already 
respectable  list. 

The  students  were  often  invited  to 
the  soirees  of  the  French  ambassador. 
It  was  there  that  I  saw  for  the  first 
time,  Gaston  de  Se"gur,  then  attache* 
of  legation,  and  since  become  the 
venerable  bishop  known  to  all  the 
world,  and  whom  I  have  the  honor  to 
count  among  my  tenderest  and  most 
faithful  friends. 

To  the  sojourn  in  Rome,  which 
was  our  regular  and  permanent  resi- 
dence, were  added  the  excursions 
authorized  into  other  parts  of  Italy. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  impression 
made  upon  me  by  Naples,  the  first 
time  I  arrived  there,  with  my 
comrade,  Georges  Bousquet,  now 
deceased,  who  had  won  the  grand 
prix  for  music  the  preceding  year. 
We  made  the  journey  with  the  Mar- 
quis Ame'de'e  de  Pastoret,  who  wrote 
the  words  of  the  cantata  with  which 
I  gained  the  same  prize  for  music. 


no 

That  enchanting  climate,  which 
gives  a  foretaste  and  conception  of 
the  sky  of  Greece  ;  that  bay,  blue  as 
a  sapphire,  encircled  in  a  belt  of 
islands,  and  mountains  whose  slopes 
and  summits  take  at  sunset  that  inces- 
santly changing  scale  of  magic  tints 
which  eclipse  the  richest  velvet  and 
the  most  glittering  gems — all  pro- 
duced upon  me  the  effect  of  a  dream 
or  a  fairy  tale.  The  environs — those 
wonderful  places  called  Vesuvius, 
Portici,  Castellamare,  Herculaneum, 
Sorrento,  Pompeii,  the  islands  of 
Ischia  and  of  Capri,  Posilipo,  Amalfi, 
Salerno,  and  finally  Paestum,  with 
its  admirable  Doric  temples,  once 
washed  by  the  blue  waves  of  the 
Mediterranean — seemed  to  me  a  ver- 
itable vision.  It  was  quite  the  con- 
trary of  Rome ;  it  was  instantaneous 
delight. 

If  to  these  attractions  be  added 
the  interest  which  attaches  to  a  visit 
to  the  Museum  of  Naples  —  a  treasure- 
house  unique  in  its  way  by  reason  of 


in 

the  masterpieces  of  ancient  art  con- 
tained therein,  the  greater  part  of 
which  were  brought  to  light  in  the 
excavations  of  Pompeii,  Hercula- 
neum,  Nola,  and  other  cities  buried 
eighteen  hundred  centuries  under 
the  eruptions  of  Vesuvius  —  one  may 
easily  understand  how  great  must  be 
the  attracting  power  of  such  a  city, 
and  how  much  delight  there  waits 
upon  an  artist. 

Three  times  during  my  stay  in 
Rome  I  had  the  pleasure  of  visiting 
Naples,  and  among  the  deepest  and 
most  vivid  impressions  brought  from 
there,  I  place  in  the  first  rank  the 
wonderful  island  of  Capri,  so  rugged 
and  at  the  same  time  so  smiling, 
thanks  to  the  contrast  between  its 
steep  cliffs  and  green  declivities. 

It  was  in  summer  that  I  visited 
Capri  for  the  first  time.  The  sun 
was  shining  fiercely  and  the  heat 
was  torrid.  During  the  day  it  was 
necessary  either  to  immure  one's 
self  in  a  room,  in  the  effort  to  win 


112 

from  obscurity  a  little  coolness  and 
sleep,  or  to  plunge  into  the  sea  and 
there  pass  a  part  of  the  day,  which  I 
used  to  do  with  great  delight.  But 
the  most  difficult  thing  to  imagine  is 
the  splendor  of  the  nights  in  that 
climate  and  at  that  season  of  the 
year.  The  vault  of  heaven  literally 
palpitates  with  stars  ;  one  might  call 
it  another  ocean  whose  waves  are  of 
light,  so  perceptibly  does  the  scintil- 
lation of  the  stars  fill  and  cause  to 
vibrate  the  infinite  space.  During 
the  two  weeks  of  my  sojourn  there  I 
often  went  to  listen  to  the  living 
silence  of  those  phosphorescent 
nights,  many  of  which  I  passed 
entirely,  seated  upon  the  summit  of 
some  steep  rock,  my  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  horizon,  and  sometimes  rolling 
down  the  perpendicular  height  a  big 
stone,  to  the  sound  of  which  I  listened 
until  it  reached  the  sea  and  buried 
itself  there  in  a  spray  of  foam.  At 
long  intervals  some  solitary  bird 
uttered  a  mournful  note,  which  carried 


113 

my  mind  toward  those  weird  preci- 
pices, the  impression  of  whose  terrors 
has  been  so  wonderfully  rendered 
by  Weber's  genius,  in  the  immortal 
scene  of  the  casting  of  the  bullets,  in 
his  opera  of  Der  Freischiitz. 

The  first  idea  of  the  Walpurgis 
Night  in  my  opera  based  on  Goethe's 
Faust  came  to  me  in  one  of  these 
nocturnal  excursions.  This  poem 
was  never  out  of  my  possession ;  I 
carried  a  copy  of  it  everywhere,  and 
recorded  in  scattered  notes  the  differ- 
ent ideas  that  might  be  of  use  some 
day  when  I  should  attempt  this  sub- 
ject as  an  opera  —  an  undertaking 
which  was  not  realized  until  seven- 
teen years  later. 

But  the  time  came  to  travel  again 
the  road  to  Rome,  and  to  reenter  the 
Academy.  However  agreeable  and 
seductive  my  stay  in  Naples,  I  could 
not  have  remained  there  without 
feeling,  at  the  end  of  a  certain  time, 
the  need  of  a  return  to  Rome. 

8 


114 

Something  like  homesickness  took 
possession  of  me,  and  1  departed 
without  sadness  from  the  place  to 
which  I  was  indebted  for  so  many 
delightful  hours. 

Notwithstanding  its  splendor  and 
prestige,  Naples  is,  after  all,  a  noisy, 
dirty,  tumultuous,  excitable,  shriek- 
ing, screaming  city.  The  people 
struggle,  wrangle,  quarrel,  banter, 
and  dispute  from  morning  to  night 
and  from  night  to  morning,  upon  the 
quays,  where  there  is  neither  silence 
nor  repose.  Altercation  is  their 
normal  condition,  and  one  is  there 
besieged,  importuned,  beset  by  the 
indefatigable  onslaught  of  the  "fac- 
chini"  sellers  of  merchandise,  coach- 
men, and  boatmen,  who,  for  a  trifle, 
would  take  you  by  force,  and  bid 
among  themselves  for  the  lowest 
price.* 

Having  returned  to   Rome,  I  set 


*See  in  appendix  the  letter  from  Gounod  to 
Lefuel,  dated  July  14,  1840. 


115 

myself  again  to  work.  This  was  in 
the  autumn  of  1840.  My  mother,  in 
spite  of  her  duties  as  a  teacher, 
which,  during  the  week  occupied  her 
from  morning  until  night,  still  found 
time  to  keep  up  a  large  part  of  our 
correspondence.  It  was  only  by 
robbing  herself  of  sleep  that  she 
could  find  the  time  thus  consecrated 
to  me  by  her  tender  and  constant 
solicitude.  I  received  from  her  let- 
ters, the  length  of  which  indicated 
the  great  amount  of  rest  of  which 
she  must  have  deprived  herself  in 
order  to  write  them.  I  knew  that 
she  was  always  up  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  to  be  ready  to 
receive  her  first  pupil,  who  came 
at  six;  and  that,  very  often,  her 
breakfast  hour]  was  sacrificed  to 
a  lesson,  during  which  she  took  no 
other  nourishment  than  soup,  or, 
perhaps,  a  piece  of  bread,  with  a  glass 
of  wine.  I  knew,  also,  that  this  busi- 
ness lasted  until  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening;  that  after  dinner  she  had 


116 

to  busy  herself  with  the  thousand 
cares  of  a  housekeeper ;  that  she  had, 
moreover,  to  write  to  many  others 
besides  me;  and  that,  still  further, 
being  a  charitable  woman,  she  often 
worked  with  her  own  hands  to  clothe 
the  poor  whom  she  visited.  Finally, 
she  did  a  thousand  things  that  one 
could  not  accomplish  without  order 
and  economy  in  the  disposal  of  time. 
She  was  endowed  in  the  highest 
degree  with  those  two  essential  and 
fundamental  qualities  upon  which 
rests  every  useful  and  well-filled 
life.  For  example,  she  had  erased 
from  her  programme  the  useless 
function  of  the  "  social  call,"  which 
consists  in  wasting  one's  time  from 
Monday  to  Saturday  in  going  to 
visit  others,  only  to  make  them  waste 
theirs,  also,  in  an  effort  to  "  kill "  the 
time  of  which  everyone  dies  with 
ennui  who  does  not  use  it  for  the 
serious  purposes  of  life.  Thus  she 
brought  us  up  according  to  short  but 
far-reaching  maxims  like  the  follow- 


117 

ing,  thrown  out  in  passing,  with  the 
laconicism  of  people  who  have  no 
time  to  be  talkative:  "Whoever 
makes  no  useless  outlay  always  finds 
the  means  for  necessary  expenses;" 
"Whoever  loses  not  a  minute  has 
always  the  time  to  do  what  he  ought 
to  do." 

One  of  the  friends  of  our  family 
used  to  say  to  me  :  "  In  my  opinion, 
your  mother  is  not  only  one  miracle, 
but  two;  I  do  not  know  where  she 
finds  the  time  for  what  she  does,  nor 
the  money  that  she  gives  away." 
The  more  she  had  to  do,  the  more 
she  did.  This  is  the  reverse  of  a 
charming  saying  of  Emile  Augier, 
but  which  signifies  the  same  thing : 
"  I  have  been  so  very  much  unoc- 
cupied that  I  have  not  had  time  to 
do  anything." 

From  time  to  time  my  dear,  good 
brother  slipped  into  my  mother's  let- 
ters kind  words  and  judicious  counsels 
addressed  to  me.  I  had  great  need 
of  them,  for  I  must  admit  that  stabil- 


118 

ity  of  judgment  has  never  been  my 
strong  point,  and  a  weakness  is  very 
strong  when  reason  does  not  serve  as 
a  counterweight.  Alas!  I  profited 
badly  by  all  that,  and  I  make  of  it 
my  med  culpd 

There  is  in  Rome,  in  the  Corso,  a 
church  called  St.  Louis  des  Fran$ais, 
the  services  of  which  are  conducted 
by  French  priests.  Every  year,  at 
the  festival  of  the  king,  Louis 
Philippe,  that  is  to  say,  on  the  ist  of 
May,  they  used  to  celebrate  in  this 
church  a  high  mass  composed  by  the 
music  student  then  at  the  Academy 
by  right  of  the  grand  prix.  The 
year  of  my  arrival  there,  the  mass 
performed  (with  orchestra)  was  by 
my  comrade,  Georges  Bousquet.  The 
following  year  it  was  my  turn.  Fear- 
ing that,  with  my  duties  as  a  student, 
I  might  not  have  the  time  to  accom- 
plish a  work  of  this  importance,  my 
mother  sent  me  my  mass  of  St.  Eus- 
tache,  entirely  copied  anew  by  her 


119 

own  hand  from  the  manuscript  of 
my  orchestral  score,  and  from  which 
she  did  not  wish  to  part,  nor  to  risk 
its  transportation  through  the  mail. 

My  feelings  upon  receiving  at 
Rome  this  new  proof  of  maternal 
patience  and  tenderness  may  easily 
be  imagined.  But  I  did  not  make 
the  use  of  it  intended  by  my  mother. 
It  seemed  to  me  more  worthy  of  a 
conscientious  artist  to  try  to  do  better 
than  that  (which  was  not  difficult),  and 
I  bravely  continued  my  work  upon 
the  new  mass  already  commenced  for, 
the  king's  fete.  I  composed  it  and 
directed  its  execution  myself.*  This 
work  brought  me  good  luck.  Besides 
the  very  indulgent  congratulations 
received  on  its  account,  I  owe  to  it 
my  appointment  as  honorary  chapel 
master  for  life  of  the  church  of  St. 
Louis  des  Fran$ais  at  Rome.  I  hardly 
thought  then  that  I  should  have 
occasion  the  following  year,  in  Ger- 

*Regardmg  a  repetition  of  this  mass,  see  in 
appendix,  letter  of  Gounod  to  Lefuel,  dated 
April  4,  1841, 


120 

many,  to  bring1  it  out  again  and  to 
direct  it  myself.  It  will  be  seen  later 
in  what  way  I  was  affected  by  the 
consequences  and  advantages  of  this 
second  performance. 

The  longer  my  stay  in  Rome,  the 
more  deeply  attached  I  became  to 
that  city,  so  mysteriously  attractive, 
so  incomparably  peaceful.  After  the 
crenelated,  volcanic,  bounding  lines 
of  the  crater  of  Naples,  the  placid, 
solemn,  silent  lines  of  the  Campagna 
of  Rome,  surrounded  by  the  Alban 
Mountains,  the  hills  of  Latium,  and 
the  Sabine  range,  the  majestic  Mount 
Gennaro,  Mount  Soracte,  the  mount- 
ains of  Viterbo,  Mount  Mario,  Mount 
Janiculus,  gave  me  the  sweet  and 
serene  impression  of  a  cloister  under 
the  open  sky. 

One  of  the  places  of  my  preference 
in  the  environs  of  Rome  was  the 
village  of  Nemi,  with  its  lake  sur- 
rounded with  thick  woods  of  a  splen- 
did luxuriance,  and  at  the  bottom  of 


121 

which  is  seen  a  vast  crater.  To  make 
the  tour  of  this  lake  by  the  upper 
road  is  one  of  the  most  delightful 
trips  of  which  it  is  possible  to  dream. 
Taken  on  a  beautiful  day,  ended  with 
such  a  sunset  as  it  was  once  my  privi- 
lege to  witness,  while  viewing  the  sea 
from  the  heights  of  Genzano,  it  is  a 
charming  and  ineffaceable  memory. 
The  environs  of  Rome  abound  in 
admirable  locations,  affording  the 
traveler  and  the  artist  an  inexhaust- 
ible series  of  excursions  —  Tivoli, 
Subiaco,  Frascati,  Albano,  Ariccia, 
and  a  thousand  other  places  explored 
many  times  by  landscape  painters,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  Tiber,  the  banks 
of  which  have  a  character  so  noble 
and  majestic. 

Among  the  works  of  art  to  be 
found  only  in  Rome,  why  should  I 
pass  by  in  silence,  in  these  memoirs 
of  my  youth,  a  work  of  unrivaled 
beauty,  which  divides  with  the  Sistine 
Chapel  the  interest  and  the  glory  of 


122 

the  Vatican  ?  I  mean  those  immortal 
paintings  composing-  the  collections 
found  in  "Le  Loggie  "  and  "Le  Stanze  " 
of  Raphael.  Among  the  latter,  in  the 
" Stanza  delta  Segnatura"  are  to  be 
seen  those  immortal  pages  of  the 
"  School  of  Athens  "  and  the  "  Dispute 
About  the  Holy  Sacrament." 

These  two  chef-d'oeuvres,  among  so 
many  others  due  to  the  brush  of  this 
celebrated  artist,  have  carried  so  high 
the  standard  of  beauty  that  it  seems 
impossible  ever  to  surpass  them.  But, 
nevertheless,  such  is  the  irresistible 
ascendency  of  genius,  that  this  man 
whose  name  the  centuries  have  placed 
at  the  summit  of  glory,  this  Raphael, 
in  fact,  was  troubled  by  Michael 
Angelo.  He  felt  the  embrace  of  that 
Titan  ;  he  bent  under  the  might  of 
that  Colossus,  and  his  last  works  show 
traces  of  homage  rendered  to  the 
mighty  inspiration  of  that  great  and 
powerful  brain,  which  surpassed  all 
human  proportions. 

Raphael     is     the    first,    Michael 


123 

Angelo  is  the  only.  With  Raphael, 
force  dilates  and  expands  itself  into 
grace;  with  Michael  Angelo,  it  is  grace 
which  seems,  on  the  contrary,  to  dis- 
cipline and  control  force.  Raphael 
charms  and  fascinates ;  Michael 
Angelo  fascinates  and  crushes. 
One  is  the  painter  of  the  terrestrial 
paradise,  but  the  other  seems  to 
pierce  with  the  eye  of  an  eagle,  like 
the  prisoner  of  Patmos,  into  the 
burning  realm  of  seraphim  and  arch- 
angels. 

It  may  be  said  that  these  two  great 
evangelists  of  art  were  placed  near 
each  other  in  the  fullness  of  the 
esthetic  age,  in  order  that  he  who 
had  received  the  gift  of  serene  and 
perfect  beauty  might  be  to  the  sight 
a  restful  protection  from  the  dazzling 
splendors  revealed  to  the  singer  of 
the  Apocalypse. 

A  detailed  analysis  of  the  innumer- 
able masterpieces  of  art  in  Rome 
would  be  beyond  the  scope  of  these 
memoirs,  in  which  my  main  object  is 


124 

to  retrace  the  principal  circumstances 
of  my  youth  and  artistic  career. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1840-1841 
that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  and 
hearing,  for  the  first  time,  Pauline 
Garcia,  sister  of  Malibran,  and  who 
had  just  married  Louis  Viardot,  then 
director  of  the  Thddtre  des  Italiens  in 
Paris.  She  was  then  only  eighteen 
years  old,  and  her  early  appearances 
at  the  above-named  theater  were  re- 
markable events.  She  was  taking  her 
wedding  tour  with  her  husband,  and 
I  had  the  honor  and  pleasure  of  play- 
ing her  accompaniment  to  the  cele- 
brated and  immortal  air  from  Robin 
des  Bois,  when  she  sang  in  the 
drawing-room  of  the  Academy.  I 
was  amazed  at  the  wonderful  talent 
of  that  child,  who  promised  to  be,  and 
who  did  become,  later,  an  illustrious 
woman.  I  did  not  see  her  again  until 
ten  years  afterward.  Strange  cir- 
cumstance !  When  twelve  years  old, 
I  had  heard  Malibran  in  Rossini's 


125 

Othello,  and  had  carried  away  from 
that  representation  the  dream  of  con- 
secrating myself  to  musical  art.  At 
twenty-two  years  of  age  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Malibran's  sister, 
Madame  Viardot,  for  whom  I  was, 
when  thirty-two  years  old,  to  write 
the  role  of  Sapho,  which  she  created 
in  1 85 1,  upon  the  stage  of  the  Od/on 
theater,  with  most  brilliant  success. 
The  same  winter  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure, also,  of  making  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Fanny  Henzel,  sister  of 
Mendelssohn.  She  was  passing  the 
winter  in  Rome,  with  her  husband  — 
painter  to  the  king  of  Prussia  —  and 
her  son,  who  was  still  quite  a  child. 
Madame  Henzel  was  a  musician 
beyond  comparison,  a  remarkable 
pianist,  and  a  woman  of  superior 
mind ;  small  and  thin  in  person,  but 
with  an  energy  that  showed  itself  in 
her  deep  eyes  and  in  her  fiery  glance. 
She  was  gifted  with  rare  ability  as  a 
composer,  and  to  her  are  due  sev- 
eral of  the  Songs  Without  Words  pub- 


126 

lished  in  the  piano  collection  under 
her  brother's  name.  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Henzel  came  to  the 
Academy  on  Sunday  evenings.  She 
used  to  place  herself  at  the  piano 
with  the  good  grace  and  simplicity 
of  those  who  make  music  because 
they  love  it,  and,  thanks  to  her  fine 
talent  and  prodigious  memory,  I  was 
brought  to  the  knowledge  of  a  mass 
of  the  chefs-d'oeuvres  of  German  music, 
of  which  I  was  completely  ignorant 
at  that  time ;  among  others,  a  number 
of  pieces  by  Sebastian  Bach  —  sona- 
tas, concertos,  fugues  and  preludes  — 
and  several  of  Mendelssohn's  com- 
positions, which  were,  also,  a  revela- 
tion to  me  from  an  unknown  world. 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Henzel  left. 
Rome  to  return  to  Berlin,  where  I 
was  to  see  them  again  two  years 
later. 

Before  leaving  the  Academy,  M. 
Ingres  presented  me  with  a  souvenir, 
doubly  precious,  both  as  an  evidence 
of  his  affection  and  as  a  production 


127 

of  his  talent.  He  painted  my  por- 
trait in  crayon,  representing  me 
seated  at  the  piano  and  having  be- 
fore me  Mozart's  Don  Juan. 

I  deeply  realized  the  void  that 
would  be  caused  by  his  departure,  and 
to  what  an  extent  I  should  miss  the 
salutary  influence  of  a  master  whose 
faith  was  so  firm,  whose  ardor  so  com- 
municable, and  whose  teachings  so 
sure  and  elevated.  There  is,  in  the 
arts,  something  besides  technical 
excellence  and  special  ability,  or  the 
knowledge  and  possession,  however 
perfect,  of  methods.  A II  that  is  good, 
and  even  absolutely  necessary,  but  it 
constitutes  only  the  material  part  of 
the  artist,  the  covering  and  body  of 
any  particularly  designated  art.  In 
all  arts  there  is  something  which 
belongs  exclusively  to  none,  and 
which  is  common  to  all,  above  all, 
and  without  which  they  are  nothing 
more  than  mere  professions.  This 
something  —  which  is  invisible,  but 
which  is  the  soul  and  life  —  is  art. 


Art  is  one  of  the  three  great  trans- 
formations that  realities  undergo  in 
contact  with  the  human  mind,  accord- 
ing as  it  considers  them  in  the  ideal 
and  governing  light  of  one  of  the 
three  great  aspects  —  the  good,  the 
true,  and  the  beautiful.  Art  is  no 
more  a  mere  dream  than  it  is  a  mere 
copy;  it  is  neither  the  ideal  alone 
nor  the  real  alone;  it  is  like  man 
himself,  the  meeting,  the  combina- 
tion of  the  two.  It  is  unity  in  dual- 
ity; judged  by  the  ideal  alone,  it  is 
above  us;  by  the  real  alone,  it  is 
below  us.  Morality  is  the  humaniza- 
tion,  the  incarnation  of  the  good ; 
science,  that  of  the  true ;  art,  that  of 
the  beautiful. 

It  was  to  this  apostolate  of  the 
beautiful  that  M.  Ingres  belonged  ;  it 
was  his  life.  This  was  perceptible  in 
his  discourses  as  well  as  in  his  works, 
and  even  more,  perhaps,  in  the  latter 
than  in  the  former,  to  such  a  de- 
gree are  men  of  faith  also  men  of 
desire,  and  so  far  does  the  effort  of 


129 

aspiration  carry  them  beyond  the 
beaten  path.  From  this  height  he 
threw  as  much  light  upon  a  musician 
as  upon  a  painter,  and  revealed  to  all 
the  common  ground  of  the  highest 
truths.  In  giving  me  to  understand 
what  is  art  in  general,  he  taught  me 
more  regarding  my  special  art  than 
could  have  done  any  number  of 
purely  technical  masters. 

However  little  I  may  have  gath- 
ered from  this  valuable  intercourse, 
this  little  sufficed  to  leave  upon  me 
an  impression  never  to  be  effaced, 
and  a  remembrance  of  him  which 
almost  took  the  place  of  his  actual 
presence. 

In  the  month  of  April,  1841,  M. 
Ingres  was  replaced  by  M.  Schnetz,  a 
distinguished  painter,  who  owed  his 
success  and  his  popularity  principally 
to  qualities  of  sentiment  and  expres- 
sion. He  was  amiable,  affectionate, 
of  great  natural  intelligence,  very 
cordial  with  the  students,  jovial,  and 
with  a  gentle  and  benevolent  face,  in 

9 


130 

spite  of  a  thick  hedge  of  black  eye- 
brows that  went  to  meet  an  abundant 
growth  of  hair  nearly  covering  his 
whole  forehead.  M.  Schnetz  was, 
above  all,  of  the  type  called  a  bon 
enfant.  I  passed  the  second  and  last 
year  of  my  stay  in  Rome  under  his 
direction. 

M.  Schnetz  had  for  that  city  a 
great  predilection,  which  was  speci- 
ally favored  by  circumstances.  He 
was  three  times  appointed  director 
of  the  Academy,  where  he  left  the 
most  favorable  impression. 

My  time  of  residence  in  Rome  was 
to  expire  with  the  year  1841,  but 
I  had  not  the  force  to  take  myself 
away,  and,  with  the  consent  of  the 
director,  prolonged  my  stay  nearly 
five  months  beyond  the  regulation 
period,  leaving  only  at  the  last  ex- 
tremity, and  having  no  more  than 
just  enough  means  for  my  journey  to 
Vienna,  where  I  was  to  receive  the 
first  half  of  my  third  year's  pension. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  my 


sorrow  when  the  time  came  to  say 
farewell  to  that  Academy,  to  those 
dear  comrades,  to  that  Rome  where 
I  felt  that  I  had  taken  root.  My 
fellow-students  accompanied  me  as 
far  as  the  Ponte  Molle,  and  after 
having  embraced  them,  I  mounted 
the  coach  which  was  to  tear  me  away 
—  yes,  that  is,  indeed,  the  word  — 
from  those  two  blessed,  happy  years 
in  the  Promised  Land.  If,  at  least, 
I  could  have  gone  directly  to  see  my 
dear  mother  and  my  good  brother, 
this  departure  would  have  cost  me 
less  pain  ;  but  I  was  going  to  be  alone 
in  a  country  where  I  knew  no  one, 
and  of  the  language  of  which  I  was 
ignorant,  and  this  perspective  could 
not  fail  to  appear  cold  and  dreary  to 
me.  As  long  as  the  route  allowed, 
my  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  the 
cupola  of  St.  Peter's,  that  summit  of 
Rome  and  center  of  the  whole  world. 
When  the  hills  concealed  it  entirely 
from  my  sight,  I  fell  into  a  deep 
reverie  and  wept  like  a  child. 


III. 

GERMANY. 

LEAVING  Rome  for  Germany,  my 
way  naturally  lay  through  Florence 
and  the  north  of  Italy,  turning  on 
the  right  toward  Ferrara,  Padua, 
Venice,  and  Trieste. 

I  stopped  in  Florence,  of  which 
city  I  will  not  attempt  to  name  in 
detail  the  objects  of  interest,  for, 
like  Rome,  it  is  inexhaustible  in 
works  of  art.  The  Uffizi  Gallery, 
with  its  admirable  Tribuna — a  verit- 
able shrine  of  relics  of  the  beautiful 
—  the  Pitti  Palace,  the  Academy,  the 
convents,  all  overflow  with  chefs- 
d'ceuvres.  But  there,  also,  in  that 
delightful  city  of  Florence,  the 
scepter  is  in  the  hand  of  Michael 
Angelo,  who  dominates  everything 
from  the  height  of  the  marvelous 

032) 


133 

and  impressive  Chapel  of  the 
Medici.  There,  as  in  Rome,  his 
genius  has  left  its  unique,  sover- 
eign, unrivaled  imprint. 

Wherever  one  meets  Michael 
Angelo,  he  commands  serious  at- 
tention. As  soon  as  he  speaks,  one 
feels  that  all  else  must  be  still,  and 
this  supreme  authority  of  silence 
is,  perhaps,  nowhere  exercised  with 
more  force  than  in  this  awe-inspir- 
ing crypt  of  the  Chapel  of  the 
Medici.  What  a  grand  conception 
is  that  of  the  Pensieroso,  mute  senti- 
nel seeming  to  guard  the  dead  and 
waiting  immovably  the  trumpet-call 
of  the  judgment !  What  repose  and 
grace  in  that  figure  of  Night,  or 
rather  of  the  Peace  of  Sleep,  form- 
ing a  companion  piece  to  the  robust 
figure  of  Day,  lying  extended,  and 
as  if  enchained,  until  the  dawn  of 
the  last  of  days!  It  is  by  the  pro- 
found meaning,  by  the  choice  of 
attitude,  at  once  ideal  and  natural, 
that  Michael  Angelo  raises  himself 


134 

everywhere  to  that  intensity  of  ex- 
pression which  is  the  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  his  powerful  indi- 
viduality. The  amplitude  of  his 
figures  naturally  results  from  the 
grandeur  of  his  conceptions  —  a 
great  river-bed  hollowed  out  by  the 
majestic  stream  of  his  thoughts  — 
and  it  is  this  which  forcibly  con- 
demns as  pompous  and  inflated  all 
imitations  of  forms  that  his  genius 
alone  could  perfect,  because  he  only 
could  fill  and  vivify  them. 

But  I  am  on  my  way  to  Germany, 
where  time  and  money  urge  me  to 
arrive,  and  I  must  glide  rapidly  over 
Florence  and  the  pleasant  memories 
brought  away  from  there.  I  passed 
through  the  deserted  Ferrara,  and 
stopped  at  Padua  a  day  or  two  to 
visit  the  fine  frescoes  of  Giotto  and 
Mantegna. 

My  stay  in  Italy  had  given  me  a 
knowledge  of  the  three  great  cities 
that  are  the  principal  birthplaces  of 


135 

art  in  that  specially  favored  country: 
Rome,  Florence,  and  Naples — Rome, 
the  city  of  the  soul;  Florence,  the 
city  of  the  intelligence;  Naples,  the 
city  of  pleasure  and  of  light,  of 
intoxication  and  of  dazzling  glory. 

It  remained  for  me  to  know  a 
fourth,  which  has  held,  also,  a  great 
and  glorious  place  in  the  history  of 
the  arts,  and  to  whose  natural 
features  her  geographical  situation 
has  given  a  character  unique  and 
exceptional  in  the  world  —  Venice. 

Venice,  joyous  and  sad,  light  and 
somber,  rosy  and  livid,  coquettish 
and  sinister,  a  constant  contrast,  a 
strange  combination  of  the  most 
opposite  impressions,  a  pearl  in  a 
cesspool ! 

Venice  is  an  enchantress;  she 
is  the  home  of  painters  of  radiance ; 
she  has  invested  art  with  sunlight. 
Contrary  to  Rome,  which  waits  for 
you,  solicits  you  slowly,  and  conquers 
you  invincibly  and  forever,  Venice 
seizes  you  by  the  senses  and  fesci- 


136 

nates  you  instantly.  Rome  is  serene 
and  pacifying,  Venice  is  exhilarating 
and  disquieting ;  but  the  exhilaration 
that  she  induces  is  mixed  (at  least 
it  was  for  me)  with  an  indefinable 
melancholy  —  a  feeling  of  captivity. 
Was  it  the  thought  of  the  dark 
dramas  of  which  she  has  been  the 
theater,  and  to  which  her  location 
seems  to  have  predestined  her?  It 
may  be;  at  any  rate,  along  sojourn 
in  this  sort  of  amphibious  necrop- 
olis would  not  seem  possible  with- 
out ending  by  feeling  one's  self 
asphyxiated  and  swallowed  up  in 
spleen.  Those  still-standing  waters, 
washing  in  gloomy  silence  the  foun- 
dations of  the  old  palaces.;  that  dark, 
shadowy  surface,  from  the  depths 
under  which  one  thinks  he  hears 
the  groans  of  some  illustrious  victim, 
make  of  Venice  a  kind  of  capital  of 
Terror ;  she  has  retained  the  im- 
pression of  the  Sinister.  And  yet, 
under  fine  sunlight,  what  magic 
in  the  Grand  Canal!  What  reflec- 


137 

tions  from  those  lagoons,  when  the 
wave  transforms  itself  into  light! 
What  power  of  brilliancy  in  those 
old  remains  of  ancient  splendor, 
which  seem  to  contend  among 
themselves  for  the  favors  of  the 
sky,  and  to  ask  its  aid  against  the 
abyss  into  which  they  are  falling, 
day  by  day,  finally  to  disappear 
forever ! 

Rome  invites  to  meditation,  Venice 
to  dissipation;  Rome  is  the  grand 
Latin  ancestor,  who,  through  the 
channel  of  conquest,  will  spread  over 
the  world  the  catholicity  of  language 
-  prelude  and  means  to  a  catholicity, 
vaster  and  of  deeper  meaning.  Ven- 
ice is  an  Oriental,  not  of  the  Greek, 
but  of  the  Byzantine  type ;  more  sug- 
gestive of  satraps  than  of  pontiffs, 
and  of  Asiatic  luxury  than  of  the 
solemnities  of  Athens  or  of  Rome. 

There  is  nothing  there,  even  to 
that  marvel  of  the  Church  of  St. 
Mark,  which  does  not  resemble  rather 
a  mosque  than  a  basilica,  or  cathedral, 


138 

and  which  does  not  appeal  more  to 
the  imagination  than  to  the  sentiment 
or  the  soul.  The  magnificence  of 
those  mosaics,  and  of  that  gold,  the 
dull,  subtly  changing  colored  lights 
from  which  stream  from  the  height 
of  the  dome  down  to  the  foundation, 
is  something  absolutely  unparalleled 
in  the  world.  I  know  of  nothing 
equal  to  it  in  vigor  of  tone  and 
strength  of  effect. 

Venice  is  a  passion,  not  a  love.  I 
was  seduced  upon  entering,  but  when 
I  left,  it  was  not  with  that  sense  of 
tearing  myself  away  as  when  bidding 
farewell  to  Rome,  the  strength  of 
which  feeling  shows  the  force  of  the 
ties  that  bind. 

Naples  is  a  smile,  a  reflection  from 
Greece  ;  her  horizon  drowned  in  pur- 
ple and  azure,  her  blue  sky  reflecting 
itself  in  the  sapphire  waves ;  all,  even 
to  her  ancient  name  of  Parthenope, 
plunge  you  again  into  that  brilliant 
civilization  to  which  nature  set  such 
charming  surroundings.  Quite  dif- 


139 

ferent  is  the  smile  of  Venice,  at  the 
same  time  caressing  and  perfidious; 
it  is  like  a  feast  above  a  dungeon- 
trap.  It  was  for  this  reason,  undoubt- 
edly, that,  in  spite  of  her  master- 
pieces and  the  magic  with  which  she 
is  enveloped,  I  had  at  departure,  and 
without  knowing  why,  a  feeling  of 
deliverance  rather  than  of  regret. 

From  Venice  my  route  was  by 
steamboat  to  Trieste,  where  I  took 
the  diligence  for  Graetz.  On  the  way 
I  visited  the  curious  and  superb  grot- 
toes of  stalactites  at  Adelberg — real 
subterranean  cathedrals.  I  crossed 
the  Carinthian  Mountains,  of  whose 
jagged  silhouette  I  made  a  sketch  as 
we  went  along.  I  arrived  at  Graetz, 
and  then  at  Olmutz,  whence  the  rail- 
road carried  me  to  Vienna,  my  first 
stop  in  that  Germany  for  which  I 
cared  only  to  have  done  with  as 
quickly  as  possible,  in  order  to  shorten 
the  exile  that  separated  me  from 
home  and  mother. 


140 

Vienna  is  an  animated  city.  The 
population  there  is  almost  more 
French  than  German  in  its  vivacity 
of  character;  it  has  spirit,  good- 
nature, and  gayety. 

I  had  no  letters  of  recommendation 
in  Vienna,  and  knew  not  a  soul  there. 
I  took  lodgings  temporarily  at  a  hotel, 
with  the  intention  of  finding,  as  soon 
as  possible,  a  quieter  and  less  expen- 
sive location  in  that  city  where  I  was 
to  pass  some  months,  and  where  it 
was  necessary  to  regulate  my  man- 
ner of  life  according  to  my  resources. 
A  traveling  companion  had  advised 
me  to  lodge  in  some  private  house  or 
family  pension.  An  opportunity  of 
putting  this  advice  in  practice  was 
soon  offered. 

Not  for  anything  in  the  world  would 
I  have  had  my  mother  make  sacrifices 
for  the  sake  of  increasing  my  little 
stipend ;  besides,  if  I  had  had  the 
slightest  desire  for  creating  useless 
expense,  the  example  of  a  life  as 
laborious  as  hers  would  have  sufficed 


141 

to  take  away  from  me  the  temptation. 
My  board  and  lodging,  and  the  cost 
of  admission  to  the  theater,  the  fre- 
quenting of  which  was  necessary  to 
the  study  of  my  art,  constituted  my 
whole  budget,  and  with  care,  the 
amount  of  my  allowance  could  be 
made  sufficient  for  all. 

The  first  work  that  I  saw  adver- 
tised on  the  billboards  of  the  Vienna 
Opera  was  Mozart's  Magic  Flute.  I 
went  in  haste,  and  took  a  ticket  for 
one  of  the  cheapest  places,  at  the  top 
of  the  house.  Unpretentious  as  was 
my  seat,  I  would  not  have  exchanged 
it  for  an  empire. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  ever 
heard  the  admirable  score  of  the 
Magic  Flute.  I  was  carried  away  with 
delight.  The  performance  was  excel- 
lent. Otto  Nicolai'  directed  the  orches- 
tra. The  role  of  the  Queen  of  Night 
was  finely  rendered  by  a  singer  of 
much  talent,  Madame  Hasselt-Barth  ; 
that  of  the  High  Priest,  Sarastro,  was 
sung  by  an  artist  of  great  celebrity, 


gifted  with  an  admirable  voice,  which 
he  managed  with  fine  method  and  in 
grand  style ;  it  was  Staudigl.  The 
other  roles  were  well  sustained,  and 
I  still  recall  the  charming  voices  of 
the  trio  of  boys  who  filled  those  of 
the  Three  Genii. 

I  passed  in  my  card  to  the  director, 
stating  the  fact  of  my  presence  there 
as  a  prix  de  Rome  student,  and  re- 
questing the  privilege  of  seeing  him. 
He  sent  for  me,  and  I  was  conducted 
to  him  behind  the  scenes,  where  he 
presented  me  to  the  artists,  with 
whom  I  found  myself,  from  that  time, 
in  continued  relationship.  But,  as  I 
did  not  know  a  traitre  mot  of  Ger- 
man, and  the  most  of  the  singers 
scarcely  spoke  French  any  better,  it 
went  rather  hard  at  first. 

Fortunately,  however,  one  of  the 
musicians  of  the  orchestra,  to  whom 
Nicolai'  presented  me,  spoke  French. 
His  name  was  Le" vy,  father  of  Richard 
LeVy,  then  a  child  of  fourteen  years, 
and  who  has  since  held  his  father's 


place  at  the  Vienna  Opera.  M.  LeVy 
received  me  most  kindly,  inviting  me 
to  call  upon  him.  In  a  short  time  we 
were  the  best  of  friends.  There  were 
three  other  children  in  the  family  — 
the  eldest,  Carl  L6vy,  a  pianist  of 
great  ability,  and  a  distinguished 
composer;  the  second,  Gustave,  to- 
day a  publisher  of  music  in  Vienna  ; 
and  the  daughter,  Melanie,  a  charm- 
ing person,  already  married  to  the 
harpist,  Parish  Alwars. 

It  was  to  M.  LeVy  that  I  owed  my 
acquaintance,  after  a  stay  of  several 
weeks,  with  Count  Stockhatnmer,  one 
of  the  men  most  useful  to  me  in 
Vienna,  and  who  was  president 
of  the  Philharmonic  Society.  Levy, 
to  whom  I  had  shown  my  mass 
written  in  Rome,  presented  me  to 
the  count,  and  spoke  to  him  of  the 
mass  in  the  most  flattering  terms. 
The  count  offered,  with  ready  kind- 
ness, to  have  it  produced  at  the  church 
of  St.  Charles,  by  the  soloists,  chorus-, 
and  orchestra  of  the  Philharmonic 


144 

Society.  The  day  chosen  was  the 
1 4th  of  September.  They  seemed 
well  pleased  with  my  work,  of  which 
fact  Count  Stockhammer  gave  me 
prompt  and  substantial  proof  by  ask- 
ing me  to  write  a  requiem  mass  — 
solos,  chorus,  and  orchestra  —  to  be 
performed  at  the  same  church  on  the 
2d  of  November,  the  day  of  commem- 
oration of  the  dead. 

I  had  only  six  weeks  before  me. 
It  was  impossible  to  be  ready  at  the 
date  specified  without  working  day 
and  night,  without  rest  or  relaxation. 
I  accepted  the  offer  with  joy,  and  lost 
not  an  instant.  The  requiem  was 
finished  at  the  desired  time.  One 
rehearsal  was  sufficient  to  make 
everything  go  admirably,  thanks  to 
the  excellence  of  the  general  musical 
education,  nowhere  as  common  as  in 
Germany,  and  which  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  observe.  I  was  especially  amazed 
at  the  facility  with  which  even 
„  schoolboys  sing  at  first  sight ;  they 
all  read  music  as  if  it  were  their 


145 

natural  tongue.  Therefore,  the  exe- 
cution of  the  choruses  was  perfect. 
I  had,  among  the  soloists,  a  superb 
bass  singer.  It  was  Draxler,  who 
was  then  quite  young,  and  divided 
with  Staudigl  the  place  of  first  bass 
at  the  Opera.  Since  that  time, 
Staudigl  has  died  insane,  as  I  am 
informed,  and  Draxler,  who  replaced 
him,  was  still  at  the  theater,  twenty- 
five  years  later,  when  I  returned  to 
Vienna,  for  the  production  of  my 
opera  of  Rome"o  et  Juliette. 

Some  time  before  the  perform- 
ance of  my  requiem,  Nicolai'  had 
introduced  me  to  an  eminent  com- 
poser, named  Becker,  devoted  exclu- 
sively to  chamber  music.  There  was 
assembled  weekly,  at  his  house,  a 
quartette,  of  which  Holz,  the  first 
violin,  had  known  Beethoven  inti- 
mately —  a  circumstance  which,  aside 
from  his  talent,  rendered  his  pres- 
ence very  interesting.  Becker  was, 
besides,  perhaps  the  best  accepted 
musical  critic  at  that  time  in  all 
10 


146 

Germany.  He  came  to  hear  my 
requiem,  of  which,  he  wrote  a  very 
eulogistic  report,  most  encouraging 
to  a  young  man  of  my  age.  He  said 
that  this  work,  "although  that  of  a 
young  artist,  still  seeking  his  way 
and  style,  revealed  a  grandeur  of 
conception  become  very  rare  at  this 
time." 

This  great  undertaking,  accom- 
plished in  so  few  weeks,  had  worn 
me  out  to  that  extent  that  I  fell  ill 
with  severe  inflammation  of  the 
throat,  resulting  in  an  abscess.  Not 
wishing  to  alarm  my  mother,  I  gave 
reliable  and  confidential  news  of  my 
condition  only  to  my  friends,  the  Des- 
goffes,  who  were  then  in  Paris.  As 
soon  as  Desgoffe  knew  that  I  was  ill 
in  Vienna,  he  hesitated  not  an  instant ; 
he  left  his  wife  and  daughter,  put 
aside  the  pictures  he  was  preparing 
for  the  Salon,  and  started  off  to  come 
and  take  care  of  me. 

At  that  time  it  took  nearly  five  or 
six  days  to  go  from  Paris  to  Vienna. 


147 

We  were  in  the  dead  of  winter,  in 
the  month  of  December,  and  this 
journey,  uncomfortable  at  any  rate 
in  such  a  season,  became  still  more 
so  by  reason  of  a  serious  indisposi- 
tion contracted  by  my  friend  on  the 
way.  He  arrived  at  Vienna,  himself 
needing  to  be  cared  for.  He  passed 
not  less  than  twenty-two  days  at  my 
bedside,  sleeping  with  one  eye  open, 
on  a  mattress  spread  upon  the  floor, 
and  watching,  with  a  mother's  solici- 
tude, my  slightest  movement.  He 
did  not  leave  me  to  return  to  Paris 
until  the  physician  assured  him  of 
my  complete  convalescence. 

Such  friendships  are  not  often  met 
with,  and  in  this  respect  Providence 
has  especially  blessed  me. 

The  success  of  my  requiem  re- 
sulted in  modifying  all  my  plans  of 
sojourn  in  Germany,  by  prolonging 
my  residence  in  Vienna.  Count 
Stockhammer  gave  me  another  or- 
der, in  the  name  of  the  Philharmonic 
Society.  It  was  to  write  a  vocal  mass 


148 

without  accompaniment,  intended  to 
be  executed  during  Lent,  in  the  same 
church  of  St.  Charles,  my  patron 
saint.  I  took  care  not  to  allow  this 
additional  opportunity  to  escape, 
first,  of  trying  my  powers,  and  then, 
of  hearing  my  work  —  a  privilege  so 
rare  and  valuable  at  the  beginning 
of  a  career.  This  was  my  second 
and  last  undertaking  in  Vienna,  from 
whence  I  departed  immediately  for 
Berlin,  by  way  of  Prague  and  Dres- 
den, in  which  latter  city  I  made  a 
short  stay  for  the  purpose  of  seeing 
the  fine  museum  there,  where,  among 
other  masterpieces,  are  found  Hol- 
bein's celebrated  Virgin,  and  the 
wonderful  Sistine  Madonna,  due  to 
the  brush  of  Raphael. 

Upon  my  arrival  in  Berlin  I  made 
haste  to  call  upon  Madame  Henzel, 
as  she  had  invited  me  to  do ;  but,  in 
about  three  weeks,  I  fell  seriously  ill 
again,  with  inflammation  of  the  bow- 
els, just  at  the  time  when  I  had  writ- 


149 

ten  to  my  mother  that  I  was  getting 
ready  to  leave,  and  was  finally  to  see 
her  again  after  a  separation  of  three 
years  and  a  half. 

Madame  Henzel  sent  her  physician 
to  see  me,  to  whom  I  gave  the  follow- 
ing ultimatum: 

"Monsieur,  I  have  a  mother  in 
Paris  who  is  waiting  for  my  return, 
and  now  counting  the  intervening 
hours.  If  she  knows  that  I  am  de- 
tained from  her  by  illness,  she  will 
set  out  on  the  journey  herself,  and 
might  lose  her  senses  on  the  way. 
She  is  advanced  in  years.  I  will  give 
her  a  reason  for  my  detention  here, 
but  the  delay  must  be  short.  Fifteen 
days  is  all  I  can  allow  you  in  which 
to  put  me  under  the  ground  or  to  set 
me  on  my  feet." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  doctor,  "if 
you  will  promise  to  follow  my  direc- 
tions, you  can  leave  in  fifteen  days." 

He  kept  his  word.  The  fourteenth 
day  I  was  out  of  the  trouble,  and 
forty-eight  hours  afterward  departed 


150 

for  Leipzig,  where  Mendelssohn  was 
living,  and  to  whom  his  sister,  Mad- 
ame Henzel,  had  given  me  a  letter  of 
introduction. 

Mendelssohn  received  me  admira- 
bly. I  use  this  word  purposely,  in 
order  to  express  the  gracious  con- 
descension with  which  a  man  of  such 
distinction  treated  a  young  fellow  who 
could  have  been  nothing  more  in  his 
opinion  than  a  pupil.  During  the 
four  days  that  I  passed  at  Leipzig,  I 
can  say  that  Mendelssohn  occupied 
himself  entirely  with  me.  He  ques- 
tioned me  concerning  my  studies  and 
my  works,  with  the  liveliest  and 
sincerest  interest ;  he  asked  to  hear, 
upon  the  piano,  my  last  composition, 
and  I  received  from  him  the  most  pre- 
cious words  of  approbation  and  en- 
couragement. I  will  mention  but  one 
of  them,  which  I  have  always  been 
too  proud  of  ever  to  forget.  I  had 
played  for  him  the  Dies  Irae  of  my 
Vienna  requiem.  He  placed  his  hand 
upon  a  part  of  it  written  for  five 


voices,  without  accompaniment,  and 
said: 

"  My  friend,  this  part  might  be 
signed  by  Cherubini." 

Words  like  these,  coming  from 
such  a  great  master,  are  real  deco- 
rations, and  one  carries  them  with 
more  pride  than  any  number  of  rib- 
bons. 

Mendelssohn  was  director  of  the 
Gewandhaus  Philharmonic  Society. 
This  society  was  not  holding  its 
meetings  at  that  time,  the  concert 
season  having  passed ;  but  he  had 
the  delicate  thoughtfulness  to  call  it 
together  for  me,  and  to  let  me  hear 
his  beautiful  work  called  the  Scotch 
Symphony,  in  A  minor,  a  copy  of  the 
score  of  which  he  gave  me  with  a 
word  of  friendly  remembrance  from 
his  own  hand.  Alas !  the  premature 
death  of  this  great  and  charming 
genius  was  soon  to  make  of  this  sou- 
venir a  genuine  and  precious  relic ! 
And  this  death  followed  six  months 
after  that  of  the  lovely  sister  to  whom 


152 


I  was  indebted  for  the  favor  of  hav- 
ing known  her  brother. 

Mendelssohn  did  not  limit  himself 
to  the  calling  together  of  the  Philhar- 
monic Society.  He  was  an  organist 
of  the  first  order,  and  wished  to  ac- 
quaint me  with  several  of  the  numer- 
ous and  admirable  compositions  of 
Sebastian  Bach  for  that  instrument, 
over  which  he  reigned  supreme. 
For  this  purpose  he  ordered  to  be 
examined  and  put  in  good  condition 
the  old  organ  of  St.  Thomas,  for- 
merly played  b)?-  Bach  himself;  and 
there,  for  more  than  two  hours,  he 
revealed  to  me  wonders  of  which 
I  had  no  previous  conception  ;  then, 
to  cap  the  climax  of  his  gracious 
kindness,  he  made  me  a  gift  of  a 
collection  of  motets  by  this  same 
Bach,  for  whom  he  had  a  religious 
veneration,  according  to  whose  school 
he  had  been  formed  from  his  child- 
hood, and  whose  grand  oratorio  of 
The  Passion  According  to  St.  Matthew 
he  directed  and  accompanied  from 


153 

memory  when   only  fourteen  years 
old. 

Such  was  the  extreme  courtesy 
shown  me  by  that  great  artist,  that 
eminent  musician,  who  was  taken 
away  in  the  flower  of  his  age  — thirty- 
eight  years  —  from  the  admiration 
that  he  had  won,  and  from  the 
master-works  reserved  for  him  by 
the  future.  Strange  destiny  of 
genius,  even  the  most  pleasing!  It 
required  the  death  of  him  who  wrote 
the  exquisite  compositions,  that  are 
to-day  the  delight  of  the  subscribers 
to  the  concerts  of  the  Conservatory, 
to  win  for  them  favor  in  the  ears  that 
had  formerly  rejected  them. 

After  having  seen  Mendelssohn  I 
had  but  one  desire — to  return  as  soon 
as  possible  to  Paris,  and  to  be  again 
with  my  poor,  dear  mother.  I  set  out 
from  Leipzig  on  the  i4th  of  May, 
1 843 ;  I  changed  conveyance  seven- 
teen times  on  the  way ;  of  six  nights, 
I  passed  four  in  traveling;  and, 


154 

finally,  on  the  2  5th  of  May,  I  arrived 
in  Paris,  where,  for  me,  a  new  life 
was  to  begin.  My  brother  met  me 
upon  the  arrival  of  the  diligence,  and 
together  we  took  our  way  to  that 
dear  home  where  I  was  again  both  to 
give  and  find  so  much  joy. 


IV. 

THE  RETURN. 

WHETHER  it  was  that  three  years 
and  a  half  of  absence  had  so  much 
changed  me,  or  that  my  last  and  still 
recent  illness,  added  to  the  fatigue  of 
the  journey,  had  so  dreadfully  altered 
my  looks,  my  mother  did  not  recog- 
nize me  at  first  sight.  I  had,  it  is 
true,  an  outline  of  a  beard,  but  so 
slight  was  it  that  I  think  one  might 
even  have  counted  the  rudiments. 

During  my  absence  my  mother  had 
left  the  ruede  I'Eperon,  and  was  living 
in  the  rue  Vaneau,  in  the  parish  of 
the  Missions  Etrangtres,  the  church 
of  which  stood  at  the  corner  of  the 
rue  de  Bac  and  the  rue  de  Babylone, 
and  in  which  the  new  position  that  I 
was  to  occupy  for  several  years 
awaited  me. 

(165) 


156 

The  cure"  of  the  said  parish,  Abbe 
Dumarsais,  was  formerly  my  chaplain 
at  the  Lycte  St.  Louis.  He  succeeded 
Abbe  Lecourtier  in  the  vicarage  of 
the  Missions.  During  my  stay  at  the 
Academy  of  France  at  Rome,  Abbe* 
Dumarsais  wrote  to  me,  offering  me 
the  position  of  organist  and  chapel 
master  of  the  parish  upon  my  return 
to  Paris.  I  accepted,  but  on  certain 
conditions.  I  did  not  wish  to  receive 
advice,  and  much  less  orders,  either 
from  the  cure",  the  vestry,  or  anyone 
else  whomsoever.  I  had  my  ideas, 
my  sentiments,  my  convictions ;  in 
short,  I  wished  to  be  the  "cure  of 
music  "  ;  otherwise,  not  at  all.  This 
was  radical,  but  my  conditions  had 
been  accepted ;  there  was  no  objec- 
tion to  them.  Habits  are,  however, 
tenacious.  The  musical  regime  to 
which  my  predecessor  had  accus- 
tomed the  good  parishioners  was 
quite  opposite  to  the  tastes  and 
tendencies  that  I  brought  back  from 
Rome  and  Germany.  Palestrina  and 


157 

Bach  were  my  gods,  and  I  was  going 
to  burn  what  the  people  had  until 
then  worshiped. 

The  resources  at  my  disposal  were 
almost  nothing.  Besides  the  organ, 
which  was  very  mediocre  and  limited, 
I  had  a  body  of  singers  composed  of 
two  basses,  one  tenor,  a  choir-boy, 
and  myself,  who  filled  at  the  same 
time  the  functions  of  chapel  master, 
organist,  singer,  and  composer.  I 
endeavored  to  direct  the  music  to 
the  best  advantage  with  this  meager 
force,  and  the  necessity  in  which  I 
was  placed,  of  making  the  most  of 
such  limited  means,  proved  beneficial 
to  me. 

Things  went  very  well  at  first,  but 
I  finally  surmised,  from  a  certain 
coldness  and  reserve  on  the  part  of 
the  parishioners,  that  I  was  not  en- 
tirely in  the  good  graces  of  my 
audience.  I  was  not  mistaken.  To- 
ward the  end  of  the  first  year  my 
cure"  called  me  to  him  and  confessed 
that  he  had  to  suffer  complaints  and 


158 

fault-finding  from  the  members  of 
the  congregation.  Monsieur  So-and- 
So  and  Madame  So-and-So  did  not 
find  the  musical  service  in  the  least 
degree  gay  or  entertaining.  The 
cur6  then  asked  me  to  "modify  my 
style,"  and  to  make  concessions. 

"Monsieur  le  Curt"  replied  I,  "you 
know  our  agreement.  I  am  here,  not 
to  consult  your  parishioners;  I  am 
here  to  elevate  them.  If  '  my  style  ' 
does  not  please  them  the  case  is  very 
plain.  I  will  resign ;  you  may  recall 
my  predecessor,  and  everybody  will 
be  satisfied.  Take  it  as  it  is  or  leave 
it  alone." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  cure", 
"  that  is  all  right ;  it  is  understood ;  I 
accept  your  resignation." 

And  thereupon  we  separated,  the 
best  friends  in  the  world. 

I  had  not  been  half  an  hour  at  home 
when  his  servant  rang  at  my  door. 

"  Well,  Jean,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  Monsieur  le  Cure"  would  like  to 
s.peak  with  you." 


159 

"Ah,  very  well,  Jean;  tell  him  I 
will  be  there  at  once." 

Arrived  in  his  presence,  he  re- 
sumed the  conversation,  saying : 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
threw  the  helve  after  the  hatchet  a 
while  ago.  Is  there  no  way  of  arrang- 
ing the  matter  ?  Let  us  consider  the 
question  calmly.  You  went  off  like 
gunpowder." 

"Monsieur  le  Cur/,  it  is  useless  to 
begin  anew  this  discussion.  I  persist 
in  all  that  I  have  said.  If  I  must 
listen  to  everybody's  objections  there 
will  be  no  way  of  getting  along ; 
either  I  remain  entirely  independent, 
or  I  go.  This  was  our  understanding, 
as  you  know,  and  I  will  abate  nothing 
from  it." 

"Ah!  mon  Dieu"  said  he;  "  what  a 
dreadful  man  you  are  !" 

Then,  after  a  pause : 

"  Well,  come  then,  stay." 

And  from  that  day  he  never  spoke 
to  me  again  on  this  subject,  allowing 
me  the  most  perfect  liberty  of  action. 


160 

After  that,  my  most  determined  oppo- 
nents became,  little  by  little,  my 
warmest  supporters,  and  the  small 
additions  successively  made  to  my 
salary  indicated  the  progress  made 
in  the  sympathies  of  my  hearers.  I 
began  with  twelve  hundred  francs  a 
year ;  this  was  not  much.  The  second 
year  they  granted  me  an  increase  of 
three  hundred  francs,  the  third  year 
I  had  eighteen  hundred  francs,  and 
the  fourth  two  thousand.  But  I  must 
not  anticipate  the  order  of  events. 

My  mother  and  I  lived  in  the  house 
with  the  cure".  There  was  also 
living  under  the  same  roof  an  eccle- 
siastic three  years  older  than  I, 
who  had  been  one  of  my  comrades 
at  the  Lycte  St.  Louis — the  Abbe 
Charles  Gay.  The  differences  in 
age  and  class  that  separated  us  at  the 
lyceum  would,  doubtless,  have  left  us 
strangers  to  each  other  if  a  common 
interest  had  not  brought  us  together. 
This  interest  was  music.  Charles 


161 

Gay,  who  was  then  fourteen  years  of 
age,  had  great  musical  aptitude,  and 
sang  the  part  of  second  soprano  in 
the  chapel  choir.  He  was,  besides, 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  pupils  of  the 
school.  He  finished  his  studies,  and 
it  was  nearly  three  years  before  we 
saw  each  other  again.  I  met  him  in 
the  foyer  of  the  Optra  one  night 
when  they  were  playing  La  Juive. 
Recognizing  him  at  once,  I  went 
directly  to  him : 

"  Comment !  "  said  he,  "  it  is  you. 
And  what  has  become  of  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  busy  with  composition." 

"  Indeed ! "  replied  he,  "  so  am  I. 
And  with  whom  are  you  studying?" 

"  With  Reicha." 

"Well,  I  declare!  and  I  also.  Oh, 
that  is  delightful ;  we  must  see  each 
other  often." 

Thus  was  renewed  a  friendship 
begun  at  school,  which  has  remained 
one  of  the  cherished  affections  of  my 
life. 

I  had    great  admiration    for  this 
11 


162 

friend,  in  whom  I  recognized  a  fine 
organization  and  faculties  much 
superior  to  mine.  His  compositions 
seemed  to  me  to  reveal  a  man  of 
genius,  and  I  envied  him  the  future 
to  which  it  seemed  to  me  he  was 
called.  I  often  went  to  pass  the 
evening  at  his  house,  where  there 
was  always  a  great  deal  of  music. 
His  sister  was  an  excellent  pianist, 
and  I  there  heard  (besides  his  own 
compositions  which  were  tried  before 
invited  friends)  the  trios  of  Mozart 
and  Beethoven. 

One  day  I  received  from  this  friend, 
who  was  then  in  the  country,  a  line 
begging  me  to  come  and  see  him, 
saying  that  he  had  something  of 
interest  to  tell  me.  I  thought  that  it 
was  a  question  of  marriage.  When 
I  arrived  where  he  was  stopping,  he 
announced  that  he  was  going  to  be  a 
priest.  I  then  understood  the  mean- 
ing of  the  folios  and  other  big  books 
with  which  I  had  for  some  time 
noticed  that  his  table  was  loaded.  I 


163 

was  too  young  to  comprehend  the 
importance  of  this  sudden  change  of 
mind,  and  pitied  him  for  making 
a  choice  that  would  require  the  sacri- 
fice of  a  fine  future  to  a  fate  that 
seemed  to  me  so  unenviable. 

Having  decided  upon  this  course, 
he  resolved  to  go  and  pass  some  time 
in  Rome,  there  to  begin  his  theolog- 
ical studies.  I  had  just  then  carried 
off  the  grand  prix,  thus  earning  the 
privilege  of  a  two  years'  stay  in  Rome, 
and  so  it  was  that  I  found  my  friend 
again  in  that  city,  where  his  arrival 
preceded  mine  by  three  months.  On 
my  return  from  Germany,  circum- 
stances brought  us  still  nearer  to- 
gether, by  placing  us  as  dwellers 
under  the  same  roof.  To-day  a 
priest  of  thirty  years'  standing,  vicar- 
general  of  his  intimate  friend,  the 
bishop  of  Poitiers,  the  Abbe"  Gay* 
has  become,  by  his  virtues  and  his 
ability  as  an  orator  and  writer,  one 

*  The  Abbe  Gay  has  since  become,  himself, 
the  bishop  of  Poitiers. 


164 

01  the  most  eminent  members  of  the 
clergy  of  France. 

Toward  the  third  year  of  my  ser- 
vices as  chapel  master,  I,  also,  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  enter  ecclesiastical 
life.  To  my  musical  occupations  I 
had  added  philosophical  and  theo- 
logical studies,  and  even  attended  in 
clerical  dress,  during  an  entire  winter, 
the  lectures  on  theology  at  the  semi- 
nary of  St.  Sulpice. 

But  I  was  strangely  mistaken  as  to 
my  own  nature  and  my  true  vocation. 
I  realized  in  time  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  me  to  live  without  my 
art,  and,  laying  aside  the-  garb  for 
which  I  was  not  adapted,  I  entered 
again  into  the  world.  But  I  owe  to 
that  period  of  my  life  a  friendship, 
the  mention  of  which  I  consider  it  an 
honor  to  associate  with  this  history 
of  my  life. 

Abbe"  Dumarsais,  Abbe"  Gay,  and  I 
were  sent,  during  the  summer  of 
1846,  to  take  sea-bathing  at  Trouville 


165 

for  our  health.  One  day  I  came  near 
drowning,  and  the  press  made  such 
haste  with  this  incident,  that  the 
news  was  published  on  the  following 
day  in  the  papers  of  Paris,  whilst  my 
brother,  whom,  fortunately,  I  had 
immediately  informed  of  the  danger 
escaped,  was  trying,  on  his  part,  to 
reassure  my  mother  by  showing  her 
my  letter  just  received.  It  was 
announced  bluntly  that  I  had  been 
"  brought  in  dead  upon  a  stretcher." 
Truth  has  hard  work  to  run  as  fast 
as  falsehood. 

Now,  in  the  course  of  our  bathing 
season,  we  met  on  the  shore  a  most 
worthy  abbe",  walking  with  a  young 
boy  whose  preceptor  he  was.  This 
boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years  was 
named  Gaston  de  Beaucourt.  His 
mother,  the  Countess  de  Beaucourt> 
owned  a  fine  estate  some  leagues 
from  Trouville,  near  Pont-V Evttque  la 
Lisieux.  She  invited  us  in  the  most 
courteous  and  gracious  manner  to 
visit  there  before  returning  to  Paris. 


166 

This  dear,  lovely  boy,  to-day  a  man 
of  forty-three  years  of  age,  and  one 
of  the  best  of  men,  became  a  life- 
long friend.  I  owe  to  his  affection, 
so  sure,  so  firm  and  tender,  not  only 
the  joys  afforded  by  such  a  perfect 
friendship,  but  also  proofs  of  the 
most  complete  and  steadfast  devo- 
tion. 

The  revolution  of  February,  1848, 
had  just  broken  out  when  I  left  the 
musical  leadership  of  the  Missions 
Etrangtres.  I  had  filled  a  position 
for  four  years  and  a  half,  which, 
while  very  useful  and  profitable  in 
the  way  of  musical  studies,  had,  nev- 
ertheless, the  disadvantage  of  leaving 
me  to  vegetate,  as  far  as  my  career 
and  future  were  concerned,  in  a  posi- 
tion without  prospect  of  advance- 
ment. For  a  composer,  there  is 
hardly  but  one  road  to  follow  in  or- 
der to  make  a  name,  and  that  is  the 
theater. 

The  theater  is  the  place  where  one 


167 

finds  the  opportunity  and  the  way  to 
speak  every  day  to  the  public ;  it  is 
a  daily  and  permanent  exposition 
opened  to  the  musician. 

Religious  music  and  the  symphony 
are  certainly  of  a  higher  order,  ab- 
stractly considered,  than  dramatic 
music,  but  the  opportunities  and  the 
means  of  making  one's  self  known 
along  those  lines  are  rare,  and  appeal 
only  to  an  intermittent  public,  rather 
than  to  a  regular  public,  like  that  of 
the  theater.  And  then  what  an  infi- 
nite variety  for  a  dramatic  author 
in  the  choice  of  subjects!  What  a 
field  opened  to  the  fancy,  to  imagina- 
tion, and  to  romance!  The  theater 
tempted  me.  I  was  then  nearly  thirty 
years  of  age,  and  was  impatient  to 
try  my  powers  upon  this  new  field  of 
battle.  But  I  had  need  of  a  poem, 
and  knew  no  author  from  whom  I 
could  obtain  one.  I  needed,  also,  to 
find  a  director  interested  in  me,  and 
who  would  consent  to  entrust  me 
with  the  composition  of  an  opera. 


168 

Who  was  likely  to  be  so  disposed, 
considering  the  religious  character 
of  my  antecedents,  and  my  inexperi- 
ence in  the  theater  ?  No  one.  I  saw 
myself  in  an  inextricable  difficulty. 
But  circumstances  placed  in  my 
path  a  man  who  shed  upon  me  a 
light.  This  was  the  violinist,  Seg- 
hers,  director  at  that  time  of  the  con- 
certs of  the  St.  Cecilia  Society,  in  the 
rue  Chausste-d-Antin.  The  opportu- 
nity was  given  me  at  these  concerts 
for  the  hearing  of  a  number  of  pieces 
that  produced  a  good  impression. 
Seghers  knew  the  Viardot  family. 
Madame  Viardot  was  then  in  all  the 
glory  of  her  talent  and  fame.  It  was 
in  1849,  at  the  time  when  she  first 
created,  in  so  masterly  a  manner,  the 
role  of  Fidts  in  Meyerbeer's  Prophtte. 
Madame  Viardot  received  me  with 
the  best  of  grace,  inviting  me  to 
bring  some  of  my  compositions  for 
her  to  hear.  I  made  haste  to  accept 
this  offer,  and  passed  several  hours 
with  her  at  the  piano.  After  having 


.      169 

listened  to  me  with  the  kindest  inter- 
est, she  said : 

"  But,  Monsieur  Gounod,  why  do 
you  not  write  an  opera?" 

"  Eh  !  Madame,"  replied  I,  "I  could 
ask  nothing  better,  but  I  have  no 
poem." 

"  What !  You  know  no  one  who 
could  write  you  one  ?" 

"Some  one  who  could,  mon  Dieu, 
perhaps  ;  but  who  would — that  is  an- 
other thing.  I  know,  or  rather,  I  did 
know  in  my  childhood,  Emile  Augier, 
with  whom  I  played  at  rolling  hoop 
in  the  Luxembourg  gardens;  but 
Augier  has  since  become  famous.  I 
have  no  celebrity,  and  the  playfellow 
of  childhood  would  hardly  care  to 
play  over  again  a  game  otherwise 
hazardous  than  a  turn  at  hoops." 

"Well,"  said  Madame  Viardot,  "go 
and  see  Augier,  and  tell  him  that  I 
will  sing  the  principal  role  in  your 
opera,  if  he  will  write  the  poem." 

One  may  guess  if  I  waited  to  be 
told  the  second  time !  I  ran  to  Augier, 


170 

who  received  my  proposition  with 
open  arms. 

"  Madame  Viardot !"  cried  he;  "  yes, 
to  be  sure !  and  that  immediately !" 

Nestor  Roqueplan  was  then  direc- 
tor of  the  Optra.  Upon  the  recom- 
mendation of  Madame  Viardot,  he 
consented  to  allow  a  part  of  the  time 
of  performance,  but  not  the  whole 
evening.  It  was  necessary,  then,  to 
find  a  subject  uniting  three  essential 
conditions — first,  to  be  short ;  second, 
to  be  serious ;  and  third,  to  have  a 
female  role  as  the  principal  figure. 
We  decided  upon  Sapho.  The  study 
of  the  opera  could  not  be  undertaken 
until  the  following  year,  and,  further- 
more, Augier  had  to  first  finish  a 
grand  subject  upon  which  he  was 
occupied  at  that  time.  It  was,  I  be- 
lieve, Diana,  for  Mademoiselle  Rachel. 

Finally,  I  had  his  promise  to  begin, 
and  waited  with  mingled  impatience 
and  tranquility. 

A  sad  event  came  to  afflict  our 
family  at  the  moment  when  I  was 


about  setting  myself  to  work.  It  was 
in  the  month  of  April,  1850.  Augier 
had  just  finished  the  poem  of  Sapho, 
when,  on  the  2d  of  April,  my  brother 
fell  ill.  On  the  3d,  I  signed  with 
Roqueplan  the  contract,  according  to 
which  I  engaged  to  deliver  to  him 
the  score  of  Sapho  on  the  3oth  of 
September,  at  the  latest.  I  had  six 
months  in  which  to  compose  and 
write  an  opera  in  three  acts  —  my 
dtbut  at  the  theater.  On  the  night  of 
the  6th  of  April  my  brother  passed 
away.  It  was  a  dreadful  blow  to  my 
mother  and  to  all  of  us. 

He  left  a  widow,  the  mother  of  a 
child  of  two  years,  and  of  another 
little  being  coming  into  the  world 
seven  months  later,  in  the  midst  of 
tears ;  and  whose  destiny  it  was  to  be 
born  on  the  2d  of  November,  the 
very  day  when  the  church  mourns 
'with  her  children  for  those  whom  they 
have  lost.  This  situation  of  affairs 
brought  about  difficulties  and  com- 
plications in  life  of  which  it  was 


m 

necessary  to  think  immediately.  The 
question  of  guardianship  of  the  chil- 
dren ;  of  succession  in  my  brother's 
business  as  an  architect,  in  which  his 
death  left  a  host  of  affairs  unfinished ; 
all  the  consequences,  finally,  of  so 
sudden  and  unforeseen  a  calamity 
demanded  for  a  month  my  personal 
attention  to  the  regulation  of  the  in- 
terests, and  the  arrangements  for 
living,  of  my  poor,  prostrated,  and 
inconsolable  sister-in-law.  Further- 
more, my  unhappy  mother  seemed 
almost  to  lose  her  reason  under  the 
stunning  blow  by  which  she  had  been 
smitten.  Everything  in  and  around 
me  conspired  to  render  me  incapable 
of  devoting  myself  to  the  work  for 
which  I  had  already  so  little  time. 

At  the  end  of  a  month,  however, 
I  began  to  think  of  occupying  my- 
self again  with  the  composition  so 
urgently  demanding  my  attention. 
Madame  Viardot,  who  was  then  sing- 
ing in  Germany,  and  whom  I  had 
advised  of  the  misfortune  with  which 


173 

we  had  been  visited,  wrote  me  at  once, 
suggesting  that  I  go  with  my  mother 
to  a  place  owned  by  her  in  Brie, 
where  I  could  find,  as  she  said,  the  soli- 
tude and  quiet  of  which  I  had  need. 
I  followed  her  advice,  and  my 
mother  and  I  left  Paris  to  go  and  stay 
for  a  while  in  the  house  where  the 
mother  of  Madame  Viardot  (Madame 
Garcia,  widow  of  the  celebrated 
singer)  was  living,  in  company  with 
a  sister  of  Monsieur  Viardot  and  a 
young  daughter  (the  oldest  of  the 
children),  to-day  Madame  He"ritte  —  a 
remarkable  musical  composer.  I  also 
met  there  a  charming  man,  Ivan 
Tourgueneff,  the  eminent  Russian 
writer,  a  most  excellent  man,  and  an 
intimate  friend  of  the  Viardot  family. 
I  set  myself  to  work  immediately 
upon  my  arrival.  Strange  fact!  It 
seems  as  if  sad  and  pathetic  accents 
should  have  been  the  first  to  thrill 
the  fibers  of  my  being,  so  recently 
shaken  by  the  most  painful  emotions  ! 
But  it  was  to  the  contrary;  the  brigther 


174 

scenes  were  those  that  first  seized 
and  took  possession  of  me,  as  if  my 
nature,  bent  under  the  weight  of  sor- 
row and  mourning,  felt  the  need  of 
reaction  and  of  free  respiration  after 
those  hours  of  agony  and  days  of 
tears  and  sighs. 

Thanks  to  the  calm  which  reigned 
around  me,  my  work  advanced  more 
rapidly  than  I  had  expected.  Madame 
Viardot,  after  her  season  in  Germany, 
was  called  by  her  engagements  to 
England.  Returning  from  that 
country  at  the  beginning  of  Septem- 
ber, she  found  my  opera  nearly  fin- 
ished. I  hastened  to  let  her  hear  the 
composition,  for  her  impressions  of 
which  I  waited  with  the  greatest 
anxiety.  She  expressed  herself 
pleased  with  it,  and  in  a  few  days 
she  was  so  well  acquainted  with  the 
score  that  she  accompanied  herself 
upon  the  piano  almost  entirely  from 
memory.  That  was,  perhaps,  the 
most  extraordinary  feat  of  musical 
memorizing  of  which  I  was  ever  wit- 


175 


ness,  and  one  which  shows  the  aston- 
ishing ability  of  that  wonderful  artist. 
Sapho  was  represented  at  the  Optra 
for  the  first  time  on  the  i6th  of  April, 
1851.  I  was  then  nearly  thirty-two 
years  old.  It  was  not  a  success,  and 
yet  this  ctibut  gave  me  a  good  place 
in  the  estimation  of  artists.  While 
the  work  showed  inexperience  in 
what  is  called  stage  business,  a  lack  of 
knowledge  of  dramatic  effects,  of  re- 
sources, and  of  practice  in  instru- 
mentation, there  was,  at  the  same 
time,  a  true  feeling  in  expression,  an 
instinct  generally  correct  on  the  lyric 
side  of  the  subject,  and  a  tendency  to 
nobility  of  style.  The  close  of  the 
first  act  produced  an  impression  com- 
pletely surprising.  It  was  called  for 
again,  with  unanimous  applause,  in 
which  I  could  hardly  believe,  although 
my  ears  were  ringing  with  unex- 
pected emotion,  and  this  "  bis  "  was 
repeated  at  each  of  the  following 
representations.  The  effect  of  the 
second  act  was  inferior  to  that  of  the 


176 

first,  notwithstanding  the  success  of 
a  cantilena  sung  by  Madame  Viardot, 
and  that  of  the  airy  duo  between 
Bre"mond  and  Mademoiselle  Poinsot, 
"  Va  wfattendre,  mon  mattre"  But  the 
third  act  was  very  well  received. 
A  rehearing  was  demanded  of  the 
shepherd's  song,  "  Broutez  le  thym, 
broutez  mes  ckevres; "  and  the  final 
lines  of  Sapho,  "O  ma  lyre  immortelle" 
were  highly  applauded. 

The  shepherd's  song  was  the  de"but 
of  the  tenor,  Aymes;  he  sang  it  mar- 
velously  well,  thereby  making  his 
reputation.  Gueymard  and  Marie 
filled  the  roles  of  Phaon  and  of  Alce"e. 

My  mother  was  naturally  present 
at  the  first  representation.  As  I  was 
leaving  the  stage  to  rejoin  her  in  the 
hall,  where  she  was  waiting  for  me 
after  the  exit  of  the  public,  I  met 
Berlioz  in  the  lobby  of  the  Optra,  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  I  sprang  to 
his  neck,  saying : 

"  Oh !  my  dear  Berlioz,  come  show 
those  eyes  to  my  mother !  that  would 


be  the  best  criticism  she  could  read 
upon  my  work." 

Berlioz  yielded  to  my  wishes,  and 
approaching  my  mother,  said : 

"Madame,  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  felt  a  similar  emotion  in  twenty 
years." 

He  published  an  account  of  Sapho, 
which  is,  assuredly,  one  of  the  high- 
est and  most  flattering  tributes  that  I 
have  had  the  honor  and  good  fortune 
to  gather  in  my  career. 

This  opera  was  played  only  six 
times.  The  engagement  of  Madame 
Viardot  came  to  a  close,  and  she  was 
replaced  in  the  role  by  Mademoiselle 
Masson,  with  whom  it  had  only  three 
more  representations. 

It  may  be  set  down  as  a  principle, 
I  think,  that  a  dramatic  work  always 
has,  or  nearly  so,  all  the  success  that 
it  deserves  with  the  public.  Theat- 
rical success  is  the  result  of  such  a 
combination  of  elements  that  it  suf- 
fices (examples  of  which  are  abun- 
dant) for  the  absence  of  any  one  of 

12 


178 

these  elements,  sometimes  of  the 
most  accessory,  to  counteract  and 
compromise  the  effect  of  the  highest 
qualities.  The  stage-setting,  the  bal- 
let, the  scenery,  the  costumes,  the 
libretto — so  many  things  contribute 
to  the  success  of  an  opera!  The 
attention  of  the  public  needs  to  be 
sustained  and  satisfied  with  the  va- 
riety of  the  spectacle.  There  are 
works  of  the  first  order  in  certain 
respects  that  have  gone  under,  not  in 
the  admiration  of  artists,  but  in  the 
public  favor,  from  the  lack  of  the 
condiment  necessary  to  secure  their 
acceptance  by  those  for  whom  the 
simple  attraction  of  the  beautiful 
does  not  suffice. 

I  do  not  pretend,  by  any  means,  to 
demand  for  the  fate  of  Sapho  the 
benefit  of  these  considerations.  The 
public  brings  to  the  formation  of 
opinion  upon  any  work  certain  rights 
and  titles  constituting  a  kind  of  prov- 
ince and  authority  apart.  One  can 
not  expect  or  demand  of  it  the  special 


179 

knowledge  by  which  the  technical 
value  of  a  work  of  art  is  decided; 
but  it  has  on  its  side  the  right  to 
expect  and  demand  that  a  dramatic 
work  should  respond  to  the  instincts 
for  which  it  seeks  nourishment  and 
gratification  at  the  theater.  Now,  a 
dramatic  composition  does  not  de- 
pend exclusively  upon  the  qualities 
of  form  and  style ;  these  qualities  are 
certainly  essential ;  they  are  even 
indispensable  in  preserving  a  work 
from  the  rapid  attacks  of  Time, 
whose  scythe  restrains  itself  only  in 
the  presence  of  ideal  beauty;  but 
they  are  neither  the  only  qualities, 
nor  even,  in  a  certain  sense,  the  first ; 
they  consolidate  and  strengthen  dra- 
matic success — they  do  not  establish 
it. 

The  public  of  the  theater  is  a  dy- 
namometer. It  seeks  not  to  know  the 
value  of  a  work  from  the  point  of 
view  of  taste ;  it  measures  only  the 
power  of  the  passion  and  the  degree 
of  the  emotions  excited;  that  is  to  say, 


180 

what  makes  of  it  really  a  dramatic 
work,  an  expression  of  what  goes  on 
in  the  human  soul,  individual  or  col- 
lective. From  which  it  results  that 
author  and  public  are  reciprocally 
called  to  instruct  each  other  in  mat- 
ters of  art — the  public  instructing  the 
author  by  showing  its  discernment 
and  approval  of  the  true,  and  the 
author  teaching  the  public  by  initia- 
ting it  into  the  elements  and  condi- 
tions of ,  the  beautiful.  Outside  of 
this  view  of  the  question,  it  seems  to 
me  impossible  to  explain  the  strange 
phenomenon  of  the  incessant  change- 
ability of  the  public,  rejecting  in  the 
morning  what  moved  it  to  passion 
the  night  before,  and  crucifying  to- 
day what  it  will  worship  to-morrow. 

Although  Sapho  was  not  fated  to 
be  what  is  called  a  popular  success,  it 
was  not  without  results  advantageous 
to  my  musical  career  and  to  my 
future.  In  the  first  place,  Ponsard 
asked  me  on  the  very  evening  of  the 


isi 

first  representation,  to  write  the  music 
for  the  choruses  in  Ulysse,  a  tragedy 
in  five  acts,  intended  by  him  for 
the  The'dtre  Frangais.  I  accepted  the 
offer  upon  the  spot,  without  knowing 
the  work ;  but  the  reputation  of  the 
author  of  Lucr^ce,  of  Charlotte  Cor- 
day,  and  of  Agnts  de  Mtranie  was 
a  sufficient  guarantee  of  the  impor- 
tance of  the  work,  to  the  collabora- 
tion of  which  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  called. 

Arsene  Houssaye  was  then  the 
director  of  the  Come'die-Fran$aise.  It 
was  necessary  to  add  to  the  usual 
personnel  of  the  theater  a  chorus 
troop  and  a  reinforcement  of  the 
regular  orchestra.* 

Ulysse  was  produced  the  i8th  of 
June,  1852.  I  had  just  married,  a 
few  days  before,  a  daughter  of 
Zimmerman, f  the  celebrated  pro- 
fessor of  the  piano  at  the  Conserv- 

*  See  in  appendix,  letter  from  Berlioz  to 
Gounod,  dated  November  19,  1851. 

t  See  in  appendix,  letter  from  Gounod  to 
Lefuel,  without  date. 


182 

atory,  and  to  whom  is  due  the 
fine  school  from  which  have  come 
Prudent,  Marmontel,  Goria,  Lefe- 
bure-Wely,  Ravina,  Bizet,  and  many 
others.  I  became,  by  this  alliance, 
brother-in-law  of  the  young  painter, 
Edouard  Dubufe,  who  was  already 
most  ably  carrying  his  father's  name, 
the  heritage  and  reputation  of  which 
his  own  son,  Guillaume  Dubufe, 
promises  to  brilliantly  maintain. 

The  principal  roles  of  Ulysse  were 
taken  by  Mademoiselle  Judith,  Mes- 
sieurs Geffroy,  Delaunay,  Maubant, 
Mademoiselle  Nathalie,  and  others. 
The  musical  part  included  not  less 
than  fourteen  choruses,  a  tenor  solo, 
several  passages  of  instrumental 
melodrama,  and-  an  orchestral  intro- 
duction. There  was,  for  the  com- 
poser, a  certain  danger  of  monotony 
in  the  constant  employment  of  the 
same  resources  —  the  orchestra  and 
the  choruses. 

I  had  the  good  fortune,  neverthe- 
less, to  get  very  happily  around  the 


183 

difficulty,  and  this  second  work 
earned  me  another  good  point  in 
the  opinion  of  artists.  My  score 
had,  besides,  a  great  advantage  not 
possessed  by  that  of  Sapho,  for  which 
no  publisher  presented  himself.  Mes- 
sieurs Escudier  did  me  the  honor 
to  engrave  my  new  work  without 
charge. 

Ulysse  was  played  forty  times.  It 
was  the  second  trial  in  my  dramatic 
career  of  which  my  mother  was 
witness. 

The  choruses  of  Ulysse  seem  to  me  to 
be  conceived  in  correct  character  and 
color,  and  in  individual  style.  The 
management  of  the  orchestra  leaves 
something  to  be  desired  with  respect 
to  experience,  rather  than  to  that  of 
coloring,  the  instinct  of  which  is,  in 
general,  very  happy. 

A  few  days  after  my  marriage, 
I  was  appointed  director  of  the 
Orphean,  and  of  vocal  instruction  in 
the  public  schools  of  Paris.  In  this 


184 

position  I  replaced  M.  Hubert,  pupil 
and  successor  to  Wilhem,  founder  of 
that  branch  of  instruction. 

These  functions,  filled  during 
eight  years  and  a  half,  exercised  a 
most  happy  influence  over  my  mu- 
sical career,  by  the  experience  they 
afforded  me  in  the  direction  and 
handling  of  large  vocal  forces, 
treated  in  a  style  simple  and  favor- 
able to  their  best  sonority. 

My  third  musical  attempt  for  the 
theater  was  La  Nonne  Sanglante,  an 
opera  in  five  acts,  with  text  by  Scribe 
and  Germain  Delavigne.  Nestor 
Roqueplan,  who  was  still  director  of 
the  Optra,  had  a  great  admiration  for 
Sapho,  and  sincere  friendship  for  me. 
He  used  to  say  that  he  found  in  me 
a  tendency  "  to  do  things  on  a  grand 
scale."  It  was  he  who  wished  me 
to  write  for  the  Optra  a  work  in 
five  acts.  La  Nonne  Sanglante  was 
written  in  1852-1853.  Put  in  re- 
hearsal October  18,  1853;  laid  aside 


185 

and  afterward  taken  tip  several 
times  for  study,  it  finally  came  to 
the  footlights  on  October  18,  1854, 
exactly  a  year  after  it  was  first  begun. 
It  had  only  eleven  representations, 
after  which  Roqueplan  was  replaced 
in  the  direction  of  the  Optra  by  M. 
Crosnier.  The  new  director  having 
declared  that  he  would  not  allow 
"such  filth  "  to  be  played  any  longer, 
the  piece  disappeared  from  the  bill- 
boards, and  has  never  been  seen 
there  since. 

This  caused  me  some  regret.  The 
satisfactory  amount  of  the  receipts 
certainly  did  not  warrant  so  radical 
and  summary  a  measure.  But  mana- 
gerial decisions  sometimes  have,  it  is 
said,  an  under  side  that  it  is  useless  to 
think  of  penetrating.  In  such  a  case, 
pretexts  are  given ;  the  real  reasons 
remain  concealed.  I  do  not  know  if 
La  Nonne  Sanglante  was  susceptible 
of  enduring  success,  but  I  do  not 
think  so.  Not  that  it  was  a  work 
without  effect  (it  contained  several 


186 

striking  scenes),  but  the  subject  was 
too  uniformly  somber.  It  had, 
besides,  the  disadvantage  of  being 
more  than  imaginary,  more  than  im- 
probable ;  it  was  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  possible,  resting  upon  a  purely 
fanciful  foundation,  without  reality, 
and,  consequently,  without  dramatic 
interest,  there  being  no  interest  out- 
side of  the  true,  or,  at  least,  the  prob- 
able. 

I  think  that  my  part  of  this  work 
showed  substantial  progress  in  the 
employment  of  the  orchestra.  Cer- 
tain pages  therein  are  treated  with  a 
surer  knowledge  of  instrumentation, 
and  with  a  more  experienced  hand. 
Several  parts  are  well  colored ;  among 
others,  the  song  of  the  Crusade  by 
Peter  the  Hermit  and  chorus,  in  the 
first  act ;  in  the  second  act,  the  sym- 
phonic prelude  of  the  Ruins,  and  the 
march  of  the  Ghosts;  in  the  third  act, 
a  cavatina  by  the  tenor,  and  his  duo 
with  the  Nonne. 

My    principal    interpreters    were 


187 

Mesdemoiselles  Wertheimber  and 
Poinsot,  Messieurs  Gueymard,  De- 
passio,  and  Merly. 

I  consoled  myself  for  my  mortifi- 
cation by  writing  a  symphony  (No.  i, 
in  D)  for  the  Society  of  Young 
Artists,  just  founded  by  Pasdeloup, 
and  whose  concerts  took  place  in  the 
Salle  Herz,  rue  de  la  Victoire.  This 
symphony  was  well  received,  and  I 
was  thus  encouraged  to  write  another 
for  the  same  society  (No.  2,  in  E  flat), 
which  also  met  with  a  certain  suc- 
cess. I  also  wrote,  at  this  epoch,  the 
Mcsse  Solennelle  de  Sainte  Cfaile,  which 
was  brought  out  successfully  for  the 
first  time  by  the  Association  des 
Artistes  Musiciens,  on  the  22d  of 
November,  1855,  at  the  church  of  St. 
Eustache,  and  which  has  been  per- 
formed several  times  since.  It  is 
dedicated  to  the  memory  of  my 
father-in-law,  Zimmerman,  whom  we 
lost  on  October  29,  1853. 

Still  another  misfortune  fell  upon 


188 

our  family.  On  the  6th  of  August, 
1855,  death  took  from  us  an  elder 
sister  of  my  wife,  Juliette  Dubufe 
(wife  of  Edouard  Dubufe,  the  painter), 
a  woman  gifted  with  a  rare  combina- 
tion of  the  most  charming  qualities, 
added  to  exceptional  talent  as  a 
sculptor  and  pianist.  "Bont<?,  esprit, 
talent" — such  was  the  simple  inscrip- 
tion, as  well  merited  as  eloquent,  that 
summed  up  the  praise  and  the  regrets 
inspired  by  this  woman  whose  exqui- 
site grace  irresistibly  captivated  all 
who  approached  her. 

The  leadership  of  the  Orphe'on 
then  occupied  the  greater  part  of 
my  time.  I  wrote  for  the  large 
choral  reunions  of  the  organization 
a  number  of  compositions,  of  which 
some  were  especially  remarked  ;  and 
among  these  are  two  masses,  one  of 
which  was  performed  under  my  direc- 
tion, June  12,  1853,  in  the  church  of 
St.  Germain-V  Auxerrois,  in  Paris.  It 
was  during  the  time  of  one  of  the 


189 

grand  annual  meetings  of  the  Or- 
phdon,  June  8,  1856,  that  my  wife 
presented  me  with  a  son.  (Three 
years  before,  on  the  1 3th  of  the  same 
month,  we  had  the  sorrow  of  losing 
at  birth  our  first-born  child,  a  girl.) 
On  the  morning  of  the  day  when  my 
son  was  born,  my  brave  wife,  although 
feeling  the  first  pains  of  motherhood 
just  as  I  was  starting  out  for  the 
meeting  of  the  Orphan,  had  the 
force  to  conceal  from  me  her  suffer- 
ings, and  when  in  the  afternoon  I 
returned  to  the  house  my  son  was 
already  in  the  world. 

The  coming  of  this  child,  so  much 
desired,  was  an  occasion  of  joy  and 
feasting.  We  have  been  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  bring  him  up  ;  he  has  now 
passed  his  twenty-first  year,  and  is 
destined  to  be  a  painter. 

After  La  Nonne  Sanglante,  I  did 
not  work  at  any  other  dramatic  com- 
position, but  wrote  a  small  oratorio, 
Tobie,  at  the  request  of  George  Hainl, 


190 

then  orchestra  director  at  the  Grand 
Thtdtre  at  Lyons,  for  one  of  his 
annual  benefit  concerts.  This  work 
had,  I  think,  some  qualities  of  senti- 
ment and  of  expression.  Especial 
notice  was  taken  of  a  very  touching 
air  in  the  part  of  the  young  Tobie, 
and  of  some  other  passages  not  lack- 
ing in  a  certain  pathetic  effect. 

In  1856,  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Jules  Barbier  and  of  Michel  Carre". 
I  asked  them  if  they  were  disposed 
to  work  with  me,  and  to  entrust  to 
me  a  poem,  to  which  they  consented 
with  great  willingness.  The  first 
subject  to  which  I  called  their  atten- 
tion was  Faust.  This  idea  impressed 
them  favorably.  We  went  to  see  M. 
Carvalho,  at  that  time  director  of  the 
TkJdtre-Lyrique,  in  the  Boulevard  du 
Temple,  where  they  had  just  mounted 
La  Reine  Topaze,  by  Victor  Masse",  and 
in  which  Madame  Miolan-Carvalho 
had  achieved  a  brilliant  success. 
Our  project  pleased  M.  Carvalho,  and 
my  collaborators  set  themselves  im- 


191 

mediately  to  work.  I  had  finished 
nearly  half  of  my  part  when  M.  Car- 
valho  informed  me  that  the  theater 
of  La  Porte-Saint-Martin  had  in  prep- 
aration a  grand  melodrama  entitled 
Faust,  which  circumstance  overturned 
all  his  calculations  in  regard  to  our 
work.  He  was  of  the  opinion,  and 
with  good  reason,  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  us  to  be  ready  be- 
fore the  Porte-Saint-Martin,  and,  fur- 
thermore, he  considered  it  unwise, 
from  the  point  of  view  of  financial 
success,  to  engage  in  a  contest  upon 
the  same  subject  with  a  theater, 
the  luxury  of  whose  stage-mounting 
would  already  have  attracted  all  Paris 
before  our  opera  could  be  produced. 

He  advised  us,  then,  to  choose 
another  subject,  but  this  discomfiture 
had  rendered  me  incapable  of  apply- 
ing my  mind  to  anything  else,  and  I 
remained  eight  days  without  the  force 
to  undertake  other  work. 

Finally,  M.  Carvalho  requested  me 
to  write  a  comedy,  and  to  seek  my 


192 

inspiration  at  the  theater  of  Moliere. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  Le  Mtd- 
ecin  Malgrt  Lui,  produced  at  the 
Theatre -Lyrique  on  the  I5th  of  Janu- 
ary, 1858,  the  anniversary  of  the  birth 
of  Moliere.  The  announcement  of  a 
comedy  written  by  a  musician  whose 
first  efforts  seemed  to  indicate  quite 
different  tendencies,  caused  a  pre- 
sentiment and  fear  of  failure.  The 
result  set  at  naught  these  fears,  some 
of  which  were,  perhaps,  not  without 
hope,  and  Le  Me"decin  Malgrt  Lui 
was,  malgrtf  cela,  my  first  popular 
success  at  the  theater.  This  pleasure 
was  empoisoned  by  the  death  of  my 
dear  mother,  who,  after  an  illness  of 
two  months,  and  having  been  totally 
blind  for  two  years,  expired  on  the 
very  next»day  after  the  first  represen- 
tation, January  16,  1858,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-seven  and  a  half  years.  It 
was  not  given  to  me  to  bring  to  her 
last  days  the  consolation  of  this  fruit 
and  reward  of  a  life  wholly  conse- 
crated to  the  interests  of  her  sons.  I 


193 

trust,  at  least,  that  she  carried  with 
her  the  hope  and  premonition  that 
her  efforts  had  not  been  in  vain,  and 
that  her  sacrifices  were  blessed. 

Le  Mtdccin  Malgrt  Lui  enjoyed  an 
uninterrupted  series  of  one  hundred 
representations.  It  was  mounted 
with  great  care,  and  the  actor,  M. 
Got,  of  the  Comtdie-Franqaise,  had, 
by  request  of  our  director,  the  kind- 
ness to  personally  give  the  assistance 
of  his  valuable  advice  to  the  artists, 
in  the  traditional  setting  of  the  piece 
and  the  declamation  of  the  spoken 
dialogue.  The  principal  role,  that  of 
Sganarelle,  was  created  by  Meillet,  a 
rotund  and  spirited  baritone,  who 
obtained  in  this  part  a  great  success, 
both  as  a  singer  and  an  actor.  The 
other  male  roles  were  entrusted  to 
Girardot,  Wartel,  Fromant,  and  Le- 
sage  (afterward  replaced  by  Potel  and 
Gabriel),  who  acquitted  themselves 
well.  The  two  principal  female 
roles  were  taken  by  Mesdemoiselles 

13 


194 

Faivre  and  Girard,  both  full  of  spirit 
and  gayety.  This  score,  the  first  that 
I  had  occasion  to  write  in  a  comic 
vein,  is  in  light  and  easy  style,  some- 
what similar  to  Italian  opera-bouffe. 
In  certain  passages  I  tried  to  recall 
the  style  of  Lully,  but  the  work,  as  a 
whole,  is  in  modern  form  and  partakes 
of  the  French  school.  Among  the 
parts  most  enjoyed  were  the  Chanson 
des  Glougous,  capitally  sung  by  Meillet, 
and  always  called  for  the  second  time; 
the  Trio  de  la  Bastonnade,  the  Sextuor 
de  la  Consultation,  a  Fabliau,  the  Sctne 
de  Consultation  des  Paysans,  and  a  duo 
between  Sganarelle  and  the  nurse. 

The  Faust  of  the  Porte  Saint-Martin 
came  to  a  representation,  but  not  even 
the  elegance  of  the  mounting  could 
assure  to  this  melodrama  a  very  long 
run.  M.  Carvalho  then  took  up  again 
our  first  project,  and  I  busied  myself 
at  once  in  finishing  the  work  inter- 
rupted to  write  Le  M^decin  Malgre" 
Lui. 

Faust  was  put  in  rehearsal  in  the 


195 

month  of  September,  1858.  I  gave  a 
hearing  of  it  to  M.  Carvalho,  in  the 
green-room  of  the  theater,  on  July 
ist,  before  my  departure  for  Switzer- 
land, where  I  was  going  to  spend  the 
vacation,  with  my  wife  and  boy,  then 
two  years  old.  At  this  time,  nothing 
was  decided  upon  as  to  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  roles,  and  M.  Carvalho 
requested  me  to  allow  Madame  Car- 
valho, who  lived  opposite  the  theater, 
to  be  present  at  the  hearing  given 
him.  She  was  so  deeply  impressed 
with  the  part  of  Marguerite  that  M. 
Carvalho  begged  me  to  assign  that 
role  to  her.  This  was  agreed  upon, 
and  the  future  proved  this  choice  to 
be  a  veritable  inspiration. 

But  the  rehearsals  for  Faust  were 
not  destined  to  be  pursued  without 
meeting  difficulties.  The  tenor  to 
whom  the  title  role  had  been  as- 
signed, could  not,  although  possess- 
ing a  charming  voice  and  attractive 
physique,  sustain  the  weight  of  this 
heavy  and  important  part.  Some 


196 

days  before  the  time  fixed  for  the 
first  representation,  we  were  obliged 
to  think  of  replacing  him,  and  had 
recourse  to  Barbot,  who  was  then 
available.  In  one  month  Barbot 
learned  the  role  and  was  ready  to 
play,  and  the  opera  was  brought  out 
for  the  first  time  on  the  i9th  of 
March,  1859. 

The  first  production  of  Faust  did 
not  create  a  remarkable  impression; 
it  is,  however,  at  this  time,  my  great- 
est theatrical  success.  Can  it  be  said 
to  be  my  best  work  ?  Positively  I  do 
not  know.  At  any  rate,  I  see  in  it 
a  confirmation  of  the  thought  ex- 
pressed above,  upon  the  subject  of 
success,  namely,  that  success  is  rather 
the  result  of  a  certain  combination  of 
fortuitous  circumstances  and  favora- 
ble conditions,  than  a  proof  or  meas- 
ure of  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  work 
itself.  It  is  by  the  surface  that  the 
favor  of  the  public  is  first  gained ;  it  is 
by  the  depth  that  it  is  maintained  and 
strengthened.  It  requires  a  certain 


197 

length  of  time  to  seize  and  take  to 
one's  self  the  expression  and  the 
meaning  of  the  infinite  number  of 
details  of  which  a  drama  is  composed. 
The  dramatic  art  is  a  kind  of  por- 
trait painting.  It  should  interpret 
characters  as  a  painter  reproduces  a 
face  or  an  attitude  ;  it  should  gather 
up  and  fix  all  the  features,  all  the 
inflections,  so  variable  and  fleeting, 
which,  taken  together,  form  the 
individuality  of  physiognomy  that  is 
called  a  personage.  Such  are  the 
immortal  characters  of  Hamlet,  of 
Richard  III.,  of  Othello,  and  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  in  Shakspeare  ;  impersona- 
tions having  such  a  resemblance  to  the 
type  of  which  they  are  the  expression, 
that  they  remain  in  the  memory  like 
a  living  reality;  therefore,  they  are 
justly  called  creations.  Dramatic 
music  is  subject  to  this  same  law,  out- 
side of  which  it  has  no  existence ;  its 
object  is  to  specialize  physiognomies. 
Now,  that  which  painting  represents 
simultaneously  to  the  mind,  music 


198 

can  only  say  successively ;  this  is  why 
it  escapes  so  easily  from  first  impres- 
sions. 

None  of  my  works  written  before 
Faust  gave  any  reason  to  expect  a 
score  of  this  kind ;  nothing  had  pre- 
pared the  public  for  it.  It  was  then, 
in  this  respect,  a  surprise,  as  it  was 
also  with  regard  to  the  interpretation. 
Certainly  Madame  Carvalho  had  not 
been  waiting  for  the  role  of  Mar- 
guerite to  reveal  the  masterly  qual- 
ities of  execution  and  style  which 
place  her  in  the  front  rank  of  the 
singers  of  our  day ;  but  no  other  role 
had  afforded  her,  until  that  time,  the 
opportunity  of  showing,  to  this  same 
degree,  the  superior  phases  of  her 
talent,  so  sure,  so  refined,  so  steady 
and  tranquil  —  I  mean  its  lyric  and 
pathetic  qualities.  The  role  of  Mar- 
guerite established  her  reputation  in 
this  respect,  and  she  has  left  upon 
this  character  an  imprint  which  will 
remain  one  of  the  glories  of  her 
brilliant  career.  Barbot  showed  him- 


199 

self  a  great  musician  in  the  difficult 
role  of  Faust.  Balanque",  who  created 
the  part  of  Mephistopheles,  was  an 
intelligent  comedian  whose  play,  phy- 
sique, and  voice  lent  themselves  won- 
derfully to  this  fantastic  and  Satanic 
personage.  In  spite  of  a  little  exag- 
geration in  gesture  and  irony,  he 
succeeded  well.  The  small  role  of 
Siebel,  and  that  of  Valentin,  were 
very  acceptably  taken  by  Mademoi- 
selle Faivre  and  M.  Raynal. 

As  to  the  score,  it  was  so  much  dis- 
cussed that  I  had  no  great  hope  of 
success 


APPENDIX. 
I. 

To  MONSIEUR  H.  LEFUEL,  Architect, 

At  the  Academy  of  France, 

Villa  Medici,  Rome. 

NAPLES,  Tuesday,  July  14,  1840. 

I  should  have  been  pleased,  my  dear 
Hector,  to  address  to  you  earlier  these 
few  lines  that  I  now  remit  by  Murat,* 
but  I  have  not  even  yet  found  time  to 
write  to  my  brother  a  sufficiently  long 
pancarte,  for  having  formed  some 
acquaintances  in  this  city  of  Naples, 
three  months  ago,  I  had  to  begin  this 
time  by  making  myself  known.  And 
now,  from  to-day,  I  shall  be  more  at 
liberty. 

I  have  also  written  to  Desgoffe,  and 
I  should  like  to  have  done  as  much  for 
our  good  H6bert,  to  whom  I  beg  you 

*  Murat  (Jean),  painter,  prix  de  Rome. 

(201) 


202 


to  make  many  excuses  for  me.  He 
shall  certainly  have  news  from  me 
directly,  one  of  these  days,  and  that 
soon,  probably,  for  I  expect  (although  I 
am  not  quite  sure)  to  leave  on  Wednes- 
day or  Thursday  of  the  coming  week,  to 
make  my  trip  to  the  islands  of  Ischia  and 
Capri,  returning  by  Paestum,  Salerna, 
Amalfi,  Sorrento,  Pompeii,  and  Naples. 
It  will  be  an  affair  of  twelve  days. 

I  hope,  my  dear,  good  friend,  that  you 
liave  been  well  since  my  departure.  I 
have  inquired  of  Desgoffe  regarding 
you,  whom  I  begged  to  persuade  you 
not  to  work  too  hard.  The  heat  there 
must  be  great  at  this  time.  Here  in 
Naples  it  is  sometimes  very  oppressive; 
to-day,  especially,  we  have  had  over- 
powering, sultry  weather,  but  the  sea- 
breeze  is  invigorating,  and  we  who  are 
lodged  almost  upon  the  sea  enjoy  and 
take  in  as  much  of  its  freshness  as 
possible. 

Naples  wearies  me  more  than  ever 
(the  city,  you  understand).  I  am  very 
curious  to  see  Capri  and  Ischia,  also 
Paestum.  I  went  up  finally,  yesterday, 


203 

to  Camaldoli;  it  is  an  admirable  point 
of  view,  especially  for  expanse  of  sea. 
You  know  how  well  we  love  the  sea ! 
The  more  one  gazes  at  it,  the  better 
one  appreciates  the  beauty  of  that 
simple,  horizontal  line,  beyond  which 
may  be  imagined  the  infinite. 

To-morrow  afternoon,  at  four  o'clock, 
should  it  be  fine,  we  are  to  go  up 
Vesuvius  to  see  the  sunset,  and  shall 
pass  the  night  there  in  order  to  get  the 
effect  of  the  whole  bay  by  moonlight ; 
and  the  following  morning  we  shall 
see  the  sunrise.  You  perceive  that 
that  is  a  fine  plan. 

I  received,  day  before  yesterday,  a 
letter  from  my  mother,  sent  from  Rome. 
I  thank  you,  dear  Hector,  if  it  is  to  you 
that  I  owe  the  arrival  of  this  letter.  My 
mother  sends  you  a  thousand  compli- 
ments, as  does  also  my  good  Urbain. 

How  did  you  like  M.  Ingres'  picture  ? 
Write  me  your  opinion,  or  send  a  word 
in  Desgoffe's  letter  when  he  answers 
me.  Always  forward  your  letters  to 
the  "  Ville  de  Rome,  Quai  St.  Lucie, 
Naples."  If  I  should  happen  to  be 


204 


out  on  an  excursion  in  the  mean- 
while, they  will  be  there  upon  my 
return.  Tell  Hubert  that  I  should 
be  very  glad  to  know  the  effect  pro- 
duced upon  his  mind  by  M.  Ingres' 
picture.  Although  I  do  not  deserve  to 
have  news  from  him  before  writing 
myself,  I  desire  this  greatly. 

Kind  regards  to  my  little  brother, 
Vauthier,  whom  I  beg,  also,  not  to  for- 
get me.  Tell  Fleury*  that  I  regretted 
not  being  able  to  say  good-by  to  him 
before  my  departure.  Finally,  I  chaige 
you,  my  dear  friend,  with  all  my 
remembrances  for  our  good  comrades, 
in  general  and  in  particular,  according 
to  the  recognized  formula. 

Adieu,  dear  Hector;  I  embrace  you 
as  I  love  you,  which  is,  as  you  well 
know,  with  all  my  heart. 

CHARLES  GOUNOD. 

Gue'nepinf  will  write  you  in  a  few 


*  Confidential  servant  of  the  students,  having 
been  then  for  forty  years  in  the  service  of  the 
Academy. 

f  Guenepin  (Fran§ois-Jean-Baptiste),  archi- 
tect, prix  de  Rome. 


205 


days,  and  will  tell  you  a  thousand 
pleasant  things.  He  is  very  good  to  me 
and  we  have  had  a  pleasant  journey, 
although  our  nights  have  been  but  three 
or  four  hours  long,  at  the  most  ;  this  is, 
however,  only  a  detail. 

Be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me,  when  you 
write,  if  Desgoffe  has  sent  to  Prince 
Soutzo's  house  for  my  score  of  Der 
Freischutz, 


II. 

To  MONSIEUR  H.  LEFUEL, 

Venice,  Poste  Restante. 

ROME,  Tuesday,  April  4,  1841. 
MY  DEAR  AND  LOVING  FATHER:* 

Here  is  your  desolated  child,  racking 
his  brains  to  know  where  to  write  to 
you,  and  commencing  to  despair  of  the 
affection  of  his  old  papa,  when  he 
learned  through  M.  Schnetz,  that  that 
intrepid  centenarian  had  taken  himself 
from  Florence  to  Bologna,  in  order  to 
reach  Venice  in  the  quickest  way.  It 

*  See  page  70. 


206 


is  there,  then,  in  Venice  that  this  son, 
being  reassured,  hastens  to  address  his 
father  to  say  that  he  is  well,  and  finally, 
that  his  mass  has  met  with  great  suc- 
cess ;  in  the  first  place,  among  his  little 
comrades,  and  in  the  second,  with  the 
public.  He  has  thought,  also,  of  the 
gratification  this  fact  would  afford  his 
old  father,  which  thought  has  counted 
for  much  in  the  joy  of  his  success. 

This  son  has  also  much  regretted  the 
absence  of  this  same  old  father,  who  is 
naturally  the  one  to  whom  he  is  most 
attached,  and  from  whom  separation  at 
this  time  is  most  inopportune  for  him. 

Furthermore,  I  have  letters  from 
Paris  charging  me  with  a  thousand 
kind  regards  for  you,  my  dear,  good 
Hector.  I  do  not  know  how  it  hap- 
pened, but  mamma  seemed  to  think  that 
I  was  going  to  see  you  again  in  two 
or  three  months.  I  have  set  her  mind 
right  upon  this  point,  but  the  disillu- 
sion must  have  cost  her  some  pain. 

And  now  then,  you  do  not  know  the 
news  that  I  have  received  regarding 
Urbain.  At  first  it  gave  me  a  tremen- 


207 


dous  spring  of  joy,  but  at  the  end  of  the 
paragraph  there  came  a  fearful  reaction. 
In  short,  it  seems  there  was  some  talk 
of  his  making  a  trip  to  Sicily  and  Rome, 
but  it  has  fallen  through,  and  I  will  tell 
you  how  it  all  happened. 

M.  le  Marquis  de  Crillon,  who  has 
always  felt  great  interest  in  our  family, 
intended  to  take  with  him  for  a  trav- 
eling companion  in  Sicily,  some  good 
artist  of  thorough  attainments  —  an 
earnest,  serious  man  —  in  short,  he  had 
thought  of  Urbain.  He  came  to  our 
house  one  day  and  made  this  proposi- 
tion to  my  mother.  She  thanked  him 
for  his  extreme  kindness,  expressed  her 
gratitude,  and  spoke  to  Urbain  of  the 
plan  when  she  saw  him.  He,  having 
quickly  and  thoroughly  decided  to 
accept  the  offer,  gave  an  affirmative 
reply  to  M.  Crillon.  But  when  it  finally 
came  to  the  point  of  going  to  bid  fare- 
well to  his  patrons,  he  everywhere  met 
faces  sad  and  dejected  at  seeing  him  go 
away,  and  everywhere  expressions  of 
regret;  no  one  could  be  found  to  replace 
him  in  tact,  judgment,  honesty,  etc.  — 


208 

in  short,  in  all  the  good  and  estimable 
qualities  which  you  know  him  to  pos- 
sess. This  was  already  a  circumstance 
to  hinder  the  plan  of  his  departure,  but 
it  was  not  all.  Something  else  came  to 
clog  the  wheels,  and  this  was  a  business 
affair  in  which  he  found  his  interests 
involved  to  the  extent  of  ten  or  twelve 
thousand  francs.  His  presence  in  Paris 
became  indispensable  at  this  time,  as 
you  can  readily  understand.  I  am  very 
uneasy  regarding  the  outcome  of  this 
critical  affair,  and  should  like  to  know 
as  soon  as  possible  how  it  has  turned. 
I  will  inform  you  about  it  in  my  next 
letter.  Poor  Urbain  !  he  is  so  good,  and 
has  given  himself  so  much  trouble! 
Fortunately,  he  has  great  courage,  and 
knows  how  to  sustain  vexatious  trials, 
but  it  is  hard  for  the  moment. 

I  found  out,  dear  Hector,  that  you 
had  written  to  Gruyere;  but  at  the 
moment  when  I  was  giving  way  to  my 
jealousy,  H6bert  said  to  me:  "Console 
yourself;  it  was  only  a  commission  with 
which  he  charged  him."  Then  I  com- 
forted myself  in  the  hope  of  hearing 
from  you  later. 


209 


I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  been  very 
much  pleased  with  the  evidences  of 
interest  shown  in  me  lately  by  several 
of  our  comrades  —  among  others,  our 
good  little  painter,  Hubert.  I  appre- 
ciated most  highly  the  careful  attention 
with  which  I  noticed  him  listening  to 
the  rehearsal  of  my  mass.  This,  cer- 
tainly, would  not  have  been  the  case 
had  he  been  indifferent,  and  one  is 
always  glad  to  mention  those  who  are 
not  so.  As  I  know  that  you,  also,  love 
Hebert,  I  am  glad  to  give  you  this 
information  concerning  him,  being  sure 
that  his  attachment  for  me  will  in 
nowise  diminish  yours  for  him.  He  is, 
also,  quite  well,  and  sends  you  a  thou- 
sand compliments,  as  do,  also,  all  the 
other  young  men  at  the  Academy.  I 
am  going  to  see  if  he  is  in  his  room, 
and  will  tempt  him  to  add  two  words  at 
the  end  of  my  letter. 

Bazin  has  not  yet  arrived.  I  do  not 
know  what  he  is  doing.  I  am  afraid 
that  his  native  city,  in  the  enthusiasm 
it  must  have  shown  him  while  passing 
through,  may  have  taken  him  bodily 

14 


and  set  him  upon  a  pedestal  as  a  statue 
in  his  own  honor.  The  Marseillaise  are 
hot-headed;  they  are  capable  of  having 
done  so  with  him;  that  would  be  a  good 
joke  for  his  prospects  as  a  student  here. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Hector;  you  know 
how  well  I  love  you.  Eh,  bien,  I 
embrace  you  "upon  the  two  cheeks 
and  the  left  eye,"  as  they  say.  If  you 
are  still  with  Courtepe"e,*  tell  him  that 
I  send  him,  also,  a  warm  grasp  of  the 
hand. 

I  hope  that  you  areu  both  well.  If 
you  are  having  the  same  weather  as 
with  us  you  ought  to  do  some  fine 
things.  Adieu,  dear  friend. 

Yours,  with  all  my  heart, 

CHARLES  GOUNOD. 

MY  DEAR  ARCHITECT: 

I  profit  by  the  opportunity  offered  by 
our  dear  musician  to  give  you  a  sign 
of  life.  I  have  learned  through  our 
great  sculptor,  Gruyere,  that  you  have 
had  a  succession  of  colds,  and  I  hope 
that  the  sunshine  of  the  noble  and 


*  Architect,  assistant  to  Lefuel. 


an 

voluptuous  Venice  will  melt  the  ice 
that  old  winter  has  heaped  up  in  your 
brain. 

You  have  had  a  great  success  at  the 
Exposition;  all  were  astonished  at  your 
drawings  —  the  ambassador  and  ambas- 
sadress could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 
them. 

I  say  nothing  of  myself;  what  I  have 
done  is  of  too  little  importance,  and  not 
good  enough  to  merit  a  line.  The  mass 
of  our  celebrated  musician  met  with 
great  success  amongst  us,  and  with  the 
public.  It  was  well  performed — thanks 
to  the  activity  he  displayed  in  shaking 
up  the  old  sleepy-heads. 

If  you  see  Loubens*  tell  him  many 
things  for  me;  and  Courtepe'e,  what 
have  you  done  with  him  ?  Have  you 
succeeded  in  making  him  get  up  when 
you  do,  oh,  early  morning  worker  ? 

Adieu.  If  I  can  be  useful  or  agree- 
able to  you,  I  am  at  your  service. 

E.  HUBERT. 


*  Former  pupil  of  the  Polytechnic    School, 
friend  of  Gounod,  Hebert,  etc. 


Murat  does  not  want    to    add    two 
words;  he  says  he  will  write  you  soon. 
CHARLES  GOUNOD. 

That  is  not  true. 

MURAT. 


III. 

To  MONSIEUR  H.  LEFUEL, 

Genoa,  Poste  Restante. 
If  M.  Lefuel  does  not  come  to  claim 
his  letters  at  Genoa,   please    forward 
this  to  him  at  the  Academy  of  France, 
at  Rome. 

VIENNA,  Monday, 

August  21,  1842. 
MY  DEAR  HECTOR: 

I  received,  the  other  week,  a  letter 
from  Hubert,  whom  I  was  the  first  to 
write  to  from  Vienna.  He  informs  me 
that  you  are  somewhere  around  Genoa, 
but  can  not  tell  me  exactly  where.  As 
you  have  neglected  me  all  along  my 
journey,  and  I  have  not  found,  either  at 
Florence,  or  Venice,  or  Vienna,  a  line 


213 

from  you,  I  find  myself  obliged  to  ask 
of  some  mutual  friend  if,  by  accident, 
he  happens  to  know  your  address  and 
can  give  it  to  me.  By  the  reply  I 
received  from  Hubert,  I  saw  that  he 
had  been  more  fortunate  than  I,  since 
he  knew,  at  least,  where  you  were,  and 
where  he  could  give  you  news  of  him- 
self while  receiving  the  same  from  you. 
You  know,  however,  very  well,  abomi- 
nable and  unnatural  father,  how  happy 
would  have  been  your  son  in  seeing 
a  few  lines  from  you;  but  the  whole 
length  of  the  journey,  and  not  even  the 
first  stroke  of  an  "A" !  And  I,  on  my 
part,  how  could  I  write  to  you  ?  I 
wished  to  do  so  everywhere,  but  no- 
where did  you  give  me  the  means 
to  do  so.  Even  now,  I  fear  that  this 
letter  will  find  you  flown  away  from 
where  you  were,  so  that  this  uncer- 
tainty has  decided  me  to  take  the  pre- 
caution that  you  will  observe  in  the 
address  of  this  letter.  If  I  were  near 
you,  wouldn't  I  scold  you  right  hard! 
How  is  it?  Have  your  patriarchal 
affections,  then,  degenerated  to  the 


214 


point  of  having  no  further  need  of 
sending  a  few  of  those  kind  lines  of 
which  you  know  your  first-born  son 
is  so  appreciative?  With  merely  your 
name  and  address,  if  you  had  not  the 
time  to  write,  I  could,  at  least,  have 
kept  you  informed  of  all  that  has 
concerned  me,  and  still  concerns  me  to- 
day —  things  to  which  I  can  not  believe 
you  indifferent.  Finally,  dear  and  well 
beloved  father  and  friend,  now  that 
I  have  scolded  you,  I  will  forget  all 
your  iniquities;  I  pardon  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart;  I  have  known  for 
a  long  time  that  you  dislike  to  write;  I 
know,  also,  that  you  do  not  waste  your 
time,  of  which  I  had  the  proof  too  often 
in  Rome,  to  lay  to  the  score  of  laziness 
the  lack  of  news  from  you.  So,  then, 
all  is  forgotten,  except  yourself. 

I  should  have  been  glad  to  tell  you, 
a  long  time  ago,  the  good  fortune  that 
has  happened  to  me  here  —  that  is  the 
opportunity  of  having  performed  with 
grand  orchestra,  on  the  8th  of  Septem- 
ber, in  one  of  the  churches  of  Vienna, 
my  mass  written  in  Rome^  and  played 


215 

there  at  St.  Louis-des-Frangais,  at  the 
king's  fete.  It  is  a  great  privilege,  and 
one  which  has  never  before  been  ac- 
corded to  any  student.  I  owe  it  to  the 
acquaintance  of  some  very  kind  artists 
who  have  presented  me  to  people  of 
influence.  In  Vienna,  I  work;  I  see  but 
very  few  people.  I  hardly  ever  go  out; 
I  am  up  to  the  neck  in  a  requiem  with 
grand  orchestra,  which  will  probably  be 
performed  in  Germany  on  the  ad  of 
November.  An  offer  has  already  been 
made  me  for  the  performance  of  my 
requiem  in  the  church  where  my  mass 
will  be  played,  but  as  I  do  not  know 
how  well  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  the 
execution  of  the  latter,  I  have  not  yet 
decided  with  regard  to  the  requiem. 

Through  the  acquaintanceship  of 
Madame  Henzel  and  of  Mendelssohn, 
it  is  quite  possible  that  I  might  obtain, 
in  Berlin,  a  much  finer  performance 
than  in  Vienna,  which  would  have  the 
advantage  of  placing  me  in  a  better 
position  in  the  opinion  of  artists.  I  am 
still  free  to  accept  the  offer  in  this  city. 
If  I  am  satisfied  with  the  execution  of 


216 

my  mass  on  the  8th  of  September,  I  shall 
decide  to  give  my  requiem  here;  if  not, 
I  shall  take  it  to  Berlin.  Madame  Hen- 
zel,  when  in  Rome,  said  to  me:  "When 
you  come  to  Germany,  if  you  have 
music  to  be  played,  my  brother  can  be 
of  great  assistance  to  you."  I  wrote  to 
her  in  Berlin  a  few  days  ago,  and,  as  I  am 
to  leave  here  on  the  i2th  of  September 
to  make  a  journey  to  Munich,  Leipzig, 
Berlin,  Dresden,  and  Prague,  I  have 
begged  her  to  inform  me  if  she  thinks 
whether  or  not  I  can  go  to  Berlin  with 
prospects  of  having  my  music  played 
there.  Her  reply  will  influence  my  de- 
cision in  this  respect.  If  she  replies 
affirmatively,  I  shall  remain  in  Berlin 
until  the  first  days  of  November,  and 
then  return  directly  to  Paris;  if  not,  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  return  to  Vienna, 
which  I  can  reach  in  three  or  four  days 
by  railway.  There  is  one  'which  goes 
from  Vienna  to  Olmutz,  nearly  sixty 
leagues  in  length.  If  I  am  to  remain 
in  Berlin  for  my  requiem,  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  arrange  my  journey  differ- 
ently, in  this  way:  Munich,  Prague, 


217 

Dresden,  Leipzig,  Berlin.  At  any  rate, 
I  will  inform  you  when  I  am  certain 
with  regard  to  it. 

I  have  many  times  regretted  our 
beautiful  Rome,  dear  Hector,  and  I 
envy  the  fate  of  those  who  are  still 
there.  It  is  almost  entirely  in  the  re- 
membrance of  that  beautiful  country 
that  I  now  find  any  delight  or  happiness. 
If  you  knew  what  all  those  countries 
are  that  I  have  traversed,  when  com- 
pared with  Italy! 

The  last  thing  that  impressed  me  viv- 
idly and  profoundly  was  Venice.  You 
know  how  beautiful  it  is ;  therefore,  I 
will  not  lay  myself  out  in  descriptions, 
nor  in  ecstasies  —  you  understand  me. 

You  have  probably  learned  on  your 
part,  dear  friend,  of  the  death  of  our 
good  comrade,  Blanchard.  It  is  by  the 
sorrow  this  event  caused  me,  that  I 
judge  what  you  must  have  felt  —  you, 
who  were  so  much  more  intimately 
connected  with  him  than  I.  So  you  see, 
my  dear  friend,  how  uncertain  we  are 
of  seeing  each  other  again  when  we 
separate,  and,  although  nothing  is  more 


218 

commonplace,  there  is  nothing  more  ter- 
ribly necessary  to  put  at  the  bottom  of 
each  letter  than: 

Adieu,  dear  friend,  adieu;  I  embrace 
you  as  I  love  you  —  that  is  to  say,  like  a 
friend,  like  a  brother,  and  always  in  the 
hope  that  we  may  meet  again. 

Adieu  —  yours  with  all  my  heart, 
CHARLES  GOUNOD. 


IV. 

MONSIEUR  CHARLES  GOUNOD, 

47  Rue  Pigalle,  Paris. 

November 
MY  DEAR  GOUNOD: 

I  have  just  read  very  attentively  your 
choruses  in  Ulysse.  The  work,  in  its 
entirety,  seems  to  me  very  remarkable, 
and  the  musical  interest  goes  on  in- 
creasing with  that  of  the  drama.  The 
double  chorus  of  the  Banquet  is  admir- 
able, and  will  produce  an  exciting  effect 
if  properly  performed.  The  Comtdie- 
Fran$aise  neither  ought,  nor  can  be, 
niggardly  with  regard  to  your  means 


219 

of  execution.  According  to  my  opinion, 
the  music  alone  will  attract  the  crowd 
for  a  great  number  of  presentations.  It 
is,  then,  in  the  most  direct  pecuniary 
interest  of  the  director  to  allow  to  the 
musical  composer  a  large  part  of  the 
expense  and  of  the  stage-setting  of 
Ulysse ;  and  I  think  he  will  do  so.  But 
do  not  weaken  in  your  demands.  It 
must  be  done  in  the  right  way,  or  not  at 
all.  Be  careful  about  the  singers  to 
whom  you  entrust  your  solos;  a  ridicu- 
lous solo  spoils  a  whole  piece. 

On  the  page  turned  down  at  the 
corner  is  an  error  in  punctuation  in 
the  music,  at  the  commencement  of  a 
verse,  that  I  advise  you  to  correct.  An 
artist  should  not  scan  in  this  way;  leave 
that  to  cheap  rhymesters. 

A  thousand  warm  and  sincere  com- 
pliments. Yours  devotedly, 

H.  BERLIOZ. 


V. 

MONSIEUR  HECTOR  LEFUEL, 

20  Rue  de  Tournon,  Paris. 

My  DEAR  HECTOR: 

I  went  to  your  house,  nearly  a  month 
ago,  to  inform  you  of  a  very  important 
event,  to  the  knowledge  of  which  your 
ancient  title  of  "  friend  and  father  "  gives 
you  a  special  right.  I  am  going  to  be 
married  next  month,  to  Mademoiselle 
Anna  Zimmerman.  We  are  all  perfectly 
satisfied  with  this  union,  which  seems 
to  offer  the  most  reliable  assurances  of 
lasting  happiness.  The  family  is  ex- 
cellent, and  I  have  the  good  luck  to  be 
loved  by  all  its  members. 

I  am  sure,  dear  friend,  that  you  will 
rejoice  with  me  most  heartily  in  this  new 
happiness.  It  will  be  temporarily  dis- 
turbed, however,  by  the  cruel  recalling 
to  our  poor  Martha*  of  the  same 
pleasure  once  tasted  by  her,  the  loss  of 
which  she  now  mourns  daily.  God 
grant  that  the  affection  of  my  new 

*  The  widow  of  Gounod's  brother. 


221 

companion  may  console  her  for  the 
unintentional  pain  roused  in  her  heart 
by  the  joy  of  this  new  sister!  So  it  will 
be,  I  trust;  for  these  two  good  creatures 
are  already  very  sympathetic. 

Adieu,    dear    Hector,    with    all  my 
heart. 

CHARLES  GOUNOD. 

My  affectionate  regards  to  Madame 
Lefuel. 


VI. 

MONSIEUR  PIGNY,* 

Rue  d'  Enghien,  Paris. 

LUCERNE,  Tuesday, 

August  28,  1855. 
MY  DEAR  AND  GOOD  PIGNY: 

In  the  letter  received  to-day  from  my 
mother,  she  tells  me  with  the  thankful 
feeling  of  an  appreciative  heart,  of  the 
filial  attentions  you  have  shown  her 
since  my  departure,  and  of  the  delicate 
precautions  with  which  you  offered  to 

*  M.  Pigny,  architect,  had  also  married  a 
daughter  of  Zimmerman. 


surround  her,  by  assisting  personally  in 
her  removal  from  the  country,  a  change 
always  troublesome  for  one  of  her 
advanced  years,  however  reduced  the 
undertaking  may  be  by  the  simplicity 
of  her  habits  and  of  her  life. 

You  who  have,  as  they  say,  a  mother 
Devotion,  a  mother  Abnegation  (I  use 
these  words  purposely,  as  epithets  do 
not  suffice  for  hearts  of  this  kind),  you 
will  understand  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
to  give  to  my  mother  is  to  give  to  me 
what  is  sweetest  and  dearest;  for  it  is 
to  supplement  and  aid  me  in  a  work 
that  I  shall  never  accomplish  as  I  wish; 
that  is,  to  return  to  my  mother  a  small 
part  of  what  her  long,  honorable,  and 
laborious  life  has  lavished  for  me  in 
cares,  sacrifices,  anxieties,  and  devotion 
of  all  kinds.  In  a  word,  we  have  been 
her  whole  life;  she  will  have  been  but 
a  part  of  ours. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Pigny,  I  am 
deeply  touched  at  finding  you  already 
in  relationship  so  sympathetic  with  me, 
and,  in  addition  to  the  affection  with 
which  all  regard  you  here,  nothing  could 


223 


give  you  a  better  right  and  title  to  a 
place  in  my  heart  than  the  reverential 
deference  you  have  so  cordially  shown  to 
my  honored  and  dearly  beloved  mother. 
CHARLES  GOUNOD. 


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